


Red, White and You

by HeliosNerd



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe slow burn I'm trying but I have no patience, POV Bucky Barnes, Romance, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeliosNerd/pseuds/HeliosNerd
Summary: All the wars ended years ago. Bucky still hasn't processed the first one. But under the custody of the Avengers and Captain America himself, he finally has the time and space—and company—to sort out an eighty year career that began and ended with Steve. He has no responsibilities, no fights, but a pile of old letters he never sent to Steve and a mind full of moments he can't say out loud. Not to mention one big secret: he's loved Steve every decade of it.Rating for language, some description of gore.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	1. The Letters

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, the canon timeline is the same except Thanos was stopped in Wakanda during Infinity War. This means The Snap never happened, time travel isn't invented, and the Avengers campus wasn't destroyed. And, of course, Tony is alive and Steve is still in the present. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!

He only had the one backpack. It wasn’t full but everything in it was important, he thought. It seemed important, at least, every time he added something to its supplies.

Some things made sense. Granola bars, wads of cash in various currencies, a few fake IDs that would be good enough to get through a border checkpoint. Loose bullets less so—the principle of having them, sure, but they weren’t for the same weapon and there wasn’t even a gun in the backpack. A small notebook, half-filled, his handwriting undeniably but sometimes neat, sometimes messy, sometimes with pictures taped in. He remembered a bigger version of the same thing, the real book he’d tried to compile to figure things out. This one was for emergencies, for quick reminders. A bookmark with Captain America on it. An empty mint tin. A pocket watch. Three rescue inhalers.

He remembered vaguely the compulsion that drove him to collect inhalers. Memories of the missions were sharper, much as he resented them, but the spaces in between missions—filling the gaps of seventy years—stuck in his mind more like dreams. Just feelings, really, of what he might have done back then. Those were memories he didn’t need to save, but clung to anyway. The first inhaler he saw, couldn’t be sure of when, but it reminded him of Steve and ducking into alleys to catch their breath and worrying all the time if the smog was bad or the wind blew too hard. The medicine wasn’t for him, never was, not even all the way back then. It was for Steve; in the memory he didn’t know that specifically, just that someone important needed it.

He took the notebook and thumbed through it. A few pages just of his own name, variations, nicknames, the names he’d never answer to—he dared anyone to call him Jimmy, see how far it’d get them—but the pencil lines were faded and hesitant where he’d written out “Bucky.” Something hurt about it, not the name itself but the way he’d recorded it. Like he couldn’t trust himself, like it was against some rule to say it. It hurt viscerally but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where. His stomach, maybe, his guts. A regret pain, a guilt, embarrassment even.

There were fresher names at the end of the book. He’d added them sporadically on separate pages, alongside the descriptions that mattered, jotting them down between fleeing from them and fighting them and trying to make friends again. Sam Wilson, undeniably an ally, reluctantly a friend. Everett Ross, jailer and warrant-holder, trustworthy as a person but not a safe name. Wanda Maximoff, Peter Parker, Shuri. He chuckled dryly at Tony Stark—penciled hastily as enemy, crossed out and corrected to potential ally, snidely defined as Steve’s former best friend. As if.

So he kept the book. It might still be useful. Everything else wasn’t worth unpacking; he’d just give the backpack to Steve to deal with, they’d already arranged for it in case there was anything particularly surprising. But, just in case, he unzipped all the pockets and fiddled through them. Good thing, too, when he found loose scraps of paper and remembered almost stupidly about the letters.

The goddamn letters. More remnants of the moments in between, shit he wrote practically unknowingly and not even his brand-new Wakandan-healed brain could remember exactly what they said. They were pages torn out of all the notebooks. A shame—maybe a blessing—he’d written everything in pencil so the words faded together. Sometimes the sentences wrapped around the margins and onto the back, disheveled and twisted. Seriffs, sometimes, for no apparent reason because he’d never in his life been taught to print. Sometimes just a spray of words in torn corners. He gathered all the sheets he could between one hand, like picking weeds. Some of the edges caught in the zipper and tore, but it didn’t reveal any words. He tried to fan them out between his fingers, then, morbidly curious.

_Dear Steve,_

_If you’re reading this,_

And he stopped there. Dear Steve, Dear Steve, every page had to start with a “Dear Steve” like some sort of ridiculous love letter. If you’re reading this, if I knew where to find you, if I knew who you were. A lot of hypotheticals acted out between the lines, but he didn’t have the vocabulary to make it the text rather than the subtext. Leave me alone, let me go. I don’t remember, I don’t know you, I don’t know anything. I saw you in a museum; you have to tell me why I was there too.

In the back of his mind he knew these weren’t the only letters. He’d been writing to Steve since 1943, except back then they were meant to keep an eye on the lonely little kid he’d left in Brooklyn. Little did he know. It was no wonder Steve never wrote back, but at the time he’d assumed the best—that Steve was ignoring him for sentimental reasons but was finding his way regardless—and it never occurred to him that when everything went to shit he’d find himself already starved of memories and shocked not just by Steve, but by some idyllic version of Steve.

He crumpled up the letters. Who were they for? Like he’d just hand the whole stack to the addressee, as if there’d be nothing to explain. Here, Steve, you barely talk to me and nothing’s the same as it was but maybe this’ll fix everything. It’s about time you knew I loved—

Nah. He carried that secret a hundred years already, what was a hundred more?

He tossed the paper ball into a corner of the room. Behind the door, when it opened, so Steve wouldn’t come in and see it. Then he zipped back up all the pockets and carried it by one strap to the door. As expected, even though it was half open, Steve was outside waiting on the wall. He tried to look nonchalant about it, like he’d just been waiting innocently and listening to the sounds of nothing rather than eavesdropping intently. So when Bucky cleared his throat Steve tried to feign surprise.

“Didn’t have much to unpack,” Bucky explained. He handed the backpack to Steve.

“We can get anything else you need,” Steve said. He was gentle about it, about the level of his voice and how he grabbed the other strap of the backpack. “Tony’s got some storage we can look at, and there’s a monthly supply order everyone can add to.”

“No chance of getting out of here?” Bucky suggested. A bit hopeless, admittedly, but looking around at the steely hallway and the skyscraper-style windows there was a little part of him that wanted to see some brick.

Steve shook his head. “Sorry. It’s still complicated.”

It was only fair, he figured. More than a few high profile murders under his belt, and that wasn’t exactly cancelled out by a few scattered years of allying himself to Captain America. He was lucky to get this far, really. House arrest at the Avengers campus—protected mainly by Wakandan diplomatic immunity he didn’t actually have—really wasn’t that bad.

“Can we eat?” Bucky said, trying to find some humor in it. If nothing else, he was allowed to eat here. The damn place had jet hangars and movie theaters and forested running trails, surely it had just a normal kitchen. Maybe he wasn’t funny again but he felt a little more like himself.

“We can.” Steve said it quickly, maybe eagerly. Yeah, this was the right choice. Nothing quite brought back the old days like him and Steve, left to their own devices, trying to scrounge a meal out of a few dollars and whatever they had around.

Bucky’s room was the end of one sparsely occupied wing. That was on purpose, in case he still couldn’t be trusted. The next door was Steve’s—perpetually open, he heard from Sam on the way in, though Steve had moved to this wing just days before Bucky. And after that was Sam, who was better friends with Bucky than most and who had some experience in handling traumatized soldiers.

They did stop at Sam’s room. Steve asked casually if he wanted lunch, but he waved them on. Just as well; Bucky wasn’t much in the mood for socializing when he wasn’t even sure what to say to Steve.

Unsurprisingly the kitchen was spotless, as most things in the compound were. He was messier than this place. Things fit on the campus, and things didn’t fit for him. Maybe he was de-programmed but he wasn’t put together by any means, and the pieces were jagged and splintered, and he didn’t have much ambition to force them back together. Well, no, he wanted to. When he looked at Steve he wanted to. Steve was better suited to the campus, but there were flickers of him that still felt wayward.

The one thing surprised in the kitchen was its other occupant. The kid, Peter—halfway to biting into a sandwich—scrambled away from the sink at the sight of them. He brought his plate with him and sputtered some apology, maybe, but Steve said something more casual that seemed to smooth everything over. Bucky wasn’t listening. His most pressing worry now was leaving a good impression before things got too far out of hand; if he scared the kid he’d be out immediately. Tony made that clear in less-than-subtle terms. He excised himself from the conversation just by turning his back, but he did feel guilty about it. Not like he had much to say to the kid but it wasn’t the most neighborly response for someone trying to justify his place.

He did remember times like these, though. With Steve. Back then things were switched, he’d be the one carrying on some polite conversation and Steve would be doing something else entirely, but he didn’t miss it much. The ease of it, maybe, the fact that he was once able to do it. He didn’t have anything to say anymore.

“Can I ask a question?” he heard suddenly from the kid, and from Steve’s surprise it was angled to Bucky. Not one to be rude he turned back around—halfway, anyway, in keeping with the non-threatening posture.

Peter hesitated, so Bucky nodded. Then the kid asked, “You speak a bunch of languages, right?”

He laughed. He was just as surprised by it as the rest of them, but of all the questions he never saw that one coming. “Yeah, I know a few.”

“Awesome.” Peter smiled nervously. “Can you help me with my Spanish homework?”

Bucky glanced at Steve, who’d started picking up languages like they were nothing way back in the war, and thought of all the better candidates Peter chose to ask the Winter Soldier. For homework help.

He paused too long in the answer, so Steve started to reply with a quick, “I can—” and then Bucky beat him to it.

“I can do that.”

Steve didn’t have to look so pleased about it, but seeing him finally smile was a little more reward than seeing Peter’s obvious relief. He wasn’t so scary after all.

“Thanks,” Peter said. Then, sandwich in one hand and plate left abandoned on the counter, the kid sprung away. He did turn around, walking backwards while announcing, “I’ll come find you when I start.”

And Bucky laughed again, signing off to the kid with one wave. He had guts like a young Steve—the more tenacious Steve, not that the current version wasn’t still stubborn as all hell. It was nice, being helpful again.

He turned a good-natured smirk on Steve. It felt deserved.

“What?” Steve said plainly, grinning in his own right.

“Nothing,” Bucky said back. “Nothing at all.”

Steve sighed. Then he chuckled some, and seemed to think that was the end of the conversation since he opened the fridge.

“That kid wanted my help,” Bucky added quickly, smugly. “Reminds me of someone.”

Steve peered around a fridge door. “I didn’t ask you for help, you’d come over and tell me I was doing it wrong.”

“You needed me.” It was a warm memory, curling around his mind like steam or stovetop smoke. He’d been a slightly better student—Steve was smarter, but between daydreams and drawings had fenced himself into his teachers’ bad sides. It didn’t matter when he’d taken on tutoring Steve, since there wasn’t ever much to actually teach. He’d answer the occasional question to sound helpful, but mostly tell Steve to keep drawing. Maybe once he’d seen Steve draw him.

Steve was quiet to that, though. There weren’t many answers that wouldn’t just sound sentimental. If anything had changed about Steve in the last seventy years, it was definitely his sentimentality.

They ended up with Steve cooking, and Bucky trying not to be so impressed. But they ate together in awkward silence in the cafeteria off the kitchen. Small talk seemed too formal but without it what else was there? Bucky didn’t have anything to say that wasn’t too much, too soon—I used to be the one taking care of you—and Steve probably had too many things to say and no clear plan for saying them. It was uncomfortable because it was unusual.

If he really thought hard about it, it was uncomfortable because he wasn’t sure how to ask anything. Some things hadn’t changed, and probably wouldn’t ever; Steve was determined, dedicated, a bit independent, maybe melancholic. That was familiar, dare he say typical. But so much of him was new—responsibilities, undue humility, doubts and reservations, authority. Yeah, Bucky would have to ask him eventually about cell phones—smartphones?—and there’d be a million little questions and it only made sense to ask Steve for answers. But how was he supposed to ask Steve where to go, how to act, what to do with himself? He’d followed Steve on missions, in battles, and it wasn’t a hard thing to do to defer to him. It was rewarding, even, to think of the hand he’d had in Steve being a leader. But all this was different.

Maybe he hadn’t actually processed just how much things had changed way back when it all started. After all, he’d left Steve in Brooklyn with only a few meager letters and the next he saw of him, Steve was… this.

“I can leave you alone,” Steve interrupted suddenly. His heart actually sank.

“No,” was his first thought. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want to push you,” Steve explained. He was sheepishly gentle about it, which generally meant he didn’t really want to do it but was gonna do it anyway. “We all need time to adjust, you included.”

“I’m adjusted,” he lied. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

Steve shrugged. “I do anyway.”

He thought that was fair, at least.

“You’re quiet,” Steve said even more softly. He opened his mouth to say more and didn’t make a sound. His eyes focused on the middle of the table between them—in the old days Bucky could press and pry and manage to drag answers out of Steve but Steve wasn’t really one to volunteer his thoughts. Not in this way, at least. He tried to be stoic and logical, and Bucky could always see right through it enough to know it was a lie. But he wasn’t good at imagining what Steve actually wanted to say, and it had only gotten worse over the years.

“You are, too,” he retorted. It was ruder than he meant it but Steve would have to give him a little grace on that.

“I don’t mean to be.” Steve met his eyes then. They’d done this a hundred times since his stint as the Winter Soldier, even since Wakanda, so why did it only now make his heart pound? Steve must’ve decided better about what he wasn’t saying then. “You’re you again but I’m still afraid. I already lost you enough.”

Bucky tried to count. He lost Steve too, when he shipped out and when he was captured, and then the train and they’d taken his whole mind away. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t even fair to compare, really. At least he got to forget Steve and remember—reclaim his memories in pieces, but live a long time without worrying about him—while Steve seemed perpetually wrenched between his death and his rescue. There wasn’t a point in feeling guilty about it but he did anyway. He got to remember absolutely nothing and all the while Steve was mourning in more than one way.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. With you ’til the end of the line, he considered. But it came off too heavy. “You couldn't leave me alone, it’s only fair I return the favor.”

Steve smiled just a little. “I don’t wanna track you down again.”

“I don’t wanna leave,” he agreed.

He did think, though, that he’d lost Steve in a way that Steve wouldn’t know, and maybe it didn’t count as a loss because he’d never had Steve that way to begin. He didn’t want to leave, that was true; regardless of the stipulations and rules and the complexities of reclaiming his citizenship and amnesty for his crimes, he’d rather be here than anywhere else. But it was bittersweet in all the tiny ways he saw Steve keep moving on.

Despite a few more protests Steve did end up leaving him alone after that. Bucky was set loose on the campus, instructed by Steve to do whatever he wanted so long as it wasn’t running away. He appreciated the trust but resented the time alone—even if Steve insisted it was because of his own obligations. He didn’t have work like that, or anything structured to do with himself. So he wandered for a while, planning out things he could do in a day to fill the time, remembering more than once that there were some things he couldn’t do without a second arm. When he was still bored and Steve was nowhere, he found himself running laps almost mindlessly. The track felt shorter than it used to. Maybe he’d start keeping count, make it into some kind of game. How many did it take to feel tired, then exhausted? How many to break a sweat?

His stride was different, shifted by his off-balance weight. It made sense why they wouldn’t let him keep the arm—it was somewhere in the campus, anyway, but he wasn’t allowed to have it back until things were “sorted out.” It wasn’t bad, just unusual. Another thing to get used to. But he wasn’t tired when he decided to stop running, just bored with it and hoping to find something else. There was a pool; maybe instead of swimming laps he’d lay back in it. Maybe he’d box, screw the second arm, he’d still knock Steve on his ass with one. Maybe he’d keep wandering, try to learn a little more of the layout or take himself off on one of the trails until he hit the perimeter. He didn’t want to test the bounds but he did want to see them, feel for himself how much room he really had.

Or, in light of every better option, maybe he’d just go back to his room. Sam was gone—his last potential distraction—and the wing was empty. He left his door open in case someone needed him, maybe the kid with his homework or Steve with anything else. It really was the bones of a room, one bed with basic sheets and one empty desk, his name on a notecard in Steve’s print handwriting. Not like he knew what to do with the space anymore but this was dismal. More of a hotel—or a hospital. He tried to remember the room he grew up in, but that was so far away anymore. He was already forgetting that place before the train and the Winter Soldier. He thought maybe there were trophies, baseballs and bats, boxing gloves, pencil drawings. Maybe newspapers too, and old Dodgers ticket stubs. Like any of that had a place here—a lot of it was his kid stuff, for one, not that he could really remember the room as it’d been before he left for the last time. But mainly a lot of it was memories. And he wasn’t too good with memories anymore.

There was a digital clock beside the bed, and checking it only made him want to tear his hair out. How long were the days? What was he supposed to do?

Without thinking too much about it he left for Steve’s room. He wouldn’t be there, Bucky figured, but maybe Steve had done a little more thinking about what modern grown up rooms looked like. And maybe he had stuff to do in there. He wasn’t disappointed immediately; Steve’s room was subdued, a bigger bed with blue comforter and white sheets, but he had posters and canvases on his walls. A bookshelf, half filled, still in the process of unpacking. Vinyl records. Throw blankets. His desk was messy, not just cluttered but in actual disarray. Above it he had a cork board with a few notes pinned on it—of course Bucky snuck closer to read them, but one was the WiFi password and the others were just small reminders. One note did say “Bucky comes home” and the date below it was underlined three times. That made him smile.

The mess was mostly unsorted books, loose papers, a couple novelty coffee mugs for good measure. There were notebooks too—not just notebooks but sketchbooks, even though they looked empty and unused. Curiosity made him want to look, but trust was a two way street and if he didn’t want Steve poking around his things he better not poke around Steve’s. But Steve still drew? He had to. And Bucky had to see it.

He exercised restraint this time. If the books were closed they weren’t meant to be seen, open door or not. But the papers strewn everywhere, that was a different story. They couldn’t be important if they were left out like this. Mission memos, typed out, some of them addressed to or from Tony but they seemed mostly informal and definitely old. Some of them were recipes—he laughed softly but fondly—and some were just the schematics for furniture. He considered the idea of Steve as a craftsman and it didn’t sit right; all he could see was tiny eighteen-year-old Steve who’d be squashed instantly by a rogue couch cushion and certainly wasn’t fit to work with anything heavier or sturdier.

Clearly Steve had dumped all his extra stuff on the desk and there wasn’t any pattern to it. A few scratched notes he hadn’t hung up, alternating between print and cursive. Loose pages torn from lined notebooks. Dear Bucky–

_Dear Bucky._

Only that much poked out from beneath the stack. It was under two books, really meant to be hidden out of all the other inconsequential pages. But… it was to him.

He slid it out partway, still reluctant to intrude. At least this may look normal enough Steve wouldn’t get suspicious.

_Dear Bucky,_

_You’ve always been there for me, and it’s time I return the favor. I’ve done a great job lately of tracking you down and getting everyone into trouble, you included, but I’m not very good at following through. I’m avoiding being honest with you._

Wherever this was headed he couldn’t find out. He walked right out of the room and back to his own, and not even the sight of Steve would stop him from closing and locking the door. He sat on his own stale new bed and found his own notebook. Flipping through it didn’t take his mind off the letter, really, but at least amidst his own notes he could find a like-minded voice. These pages were just as disorganized as Steve’s desk but in a pattern matching Bucky’s mind instead. His own notes to try and sort everything out, his small recollections of Steve and the new world and his new friends and whatever else he thought at the time was important. His own longing, to be honest. A trajectory whose end he knew without having to read any further.

But he couldn’t keep Steve’s letter off his mind. He found two pens in the drawer of his desk and wrote fervently in the little notebook,

_Dear Steve,_

_If this were 1943 I’d tell you I was well and the war was going fine. I’d tell you not to worry and ask about you too. If I still had the mind for it I’d ask you if you’d found your place yet. It wouldn’t even be a page and I wouldn’t expect a letter back._

_You’re right to avoid being honest with me. I’ve been avoiding the truth with you since then too. I wrote to you before every mission even though you were right there, telling you everything I couldn’t say in front of the guys or Peggy Carter. I thought maybe one of those times I’d actually give it to you. I didn’t get the chance then but I don’t need to remind you why._

He tossed the notebook aside and retrieved the ball of wadded up letters from its hiding place behind the door.

_Dear Steve,_

_If you’re reading this I have enough control right now to remember you. You should know that I’ve always–_

_Dear Steve,_

_You have to let me go. I’m not the same and if you keep trying to find me I’m afraid I’ll kill you. I can’t control it. You have to let me go even if you finally—_

_Dear Steve,_

_I—_

_Dear Steve,_

_If I knew where to find you I would make sure to stay far away. I’m dangerous and I can’t trust myself. I’m staying away for your sake but it kills me that I’ll never get to tell you I—_

_Dear Steve,_

_Wakanda is beautiful but not as much as—_

Dear Steve, Dear Steve, almost like some ridiculous love letters. Not many things really, truly scared him, but the thought of these getting out was the exception. If he had much sense he wouldn’t keep them, but now that he saw them again, crumpled, it didn’t feel right to throw them out. So he shoved them in the desk drawer where he’d found the pens and hoped he’d forget.

He bided his time with folding hospital corners on the bed and then tearing off all the sheets and starting again. Some monotonous army task, something he’d done well before any of this started. If he still had shoes worth shining—if he had any clothes at all that weren’t donations from whoever around the compound—he’d have more to do. Maybe he shoulda kept the backpack. At least it had something in it. But he was pressing out the wrinkles in the bedspread when he heard a soft knock. Too many raps to be Steve, so he guessed it was Peter Parker.

And it was. At least he still had some intuition.

“Can you still help?” the kid asked, trying and failing to disguise how bad he wanted to see inside the room. He was holding a book and a stapled packet of paper, and a pencil in his other hand.

Fuck it. He’d already agreed, and as far as he could tell he was still pretty adept with languages.

“Yeah,” he said. He glanced back at the desk, making sure its drawer was shut tight. Then he focused on Peter. “What do you actually need from me?”

They walked together back to communal space, and Peter explained in no shortage of words how he totally forgot to do the winter break assignment before coming to the compound—and how he wasn’t even sure what the instructions were, given they were in Spanish too—so if he could get that far he’d be okay. And he mentioned apps and sites and other translation tools but he wasn’t sure he’d get full points if his answers sounded too robotic. In short, Bucky determined, he just wanted an excuse to talk to Avengers.

So he played translator for a little. Mostly he’d read the instructions, and Peter would ask how to say random words and, while writing down his actual answers, keep asking more random words. He reached a bit when he started asking about the practicalities of learning so many languages—did Bucky actually know every word or was he just functionally fluent, did he ever pretend not to speak one, did he forget any over time. It was more of an interrogation, really, and normally Bucky wasn’t real good at them but this was different.

Honestly, he kinda liked it. About halfway through the packet it wasn’t enough just to throw out a few words, so Peter was handing him the pencil and he’d scratch out sentences in the margins and—more for himself really—talk through how he’d written them. He didn’t actually have concrete memories of the things he’d been programmed with; it was more of a block of indeterminate moments, and he was pretty sure they’d never given him a worksheet and a textbook. But some of this was familiar from even before then because Steve, being the golden boy, learned languages before the train and the ice. If Bucky had a mind like that…

“So do you—” Peter said abruptly, interrupting his attempt to remember. The kid hesitated to finish, shrinking for the first time since they’d sat down. “Do you miss it?”

“Miss what?” he clarified. He scanned the margins of the current page, his handwriting between the kid’s.

Peter gaped a bit, trying to phrase it. It would’ve made him nervous except the kid ended up saying, “The old times.”

“The old times,” he echoed.

“Yeah, like, the forties.” Peter shrugged. “The old times.”

“I miss some things,” he said slowly. He’d tried to find his home once—right after he’d gotten away from Hydra, when he was remembering things in fragments and without specifics, without words to explain them—and the neighborhood wasn’t the same. He missed the radio in the living room and the blanket on his childhood bed. The walk to Steve’s door, the spare key he hid just in case he ever needed to check up on him. Boxing, back when he was good because he had two good arms. “Steve used to be small. I kinda miss being bigger than him.”

Peter laughed.

“But there’s a lot I like about now.” His attention drifted from the paper in front of him to the nearest window halfway across the room. “A lot of things feel… freer.”

The kid probably meant something more like, how cool are the computers now and what his favorite movie was. It was clear from his face—just a little confused, though in fairness that’s how the kid looked every time he saw him.

“It’s real great everything’s in color now,” he added casually, smiling when the kid caught on. “The costumes look a lot better in color.”

In the end they didn’t finish the packet, but it was only because Peter realized Bucky hadn’t seen a single movie since 1943. There were apparently more than a few he’d have to check out and it was pretty urgent and Peter was calling in reinforcements and he assured Bucky not to worry, he’d have the whole required list soon. He only protested enough to make the kid determined.

So that was how he found himself alone again. He spent the rest of the evening that way, but he tried to spend it at least somewhat productively. With paper stolen from Steve’s room he catalogued what he thought he needed—paper, for one—and determined he could figure out where everything was in the morning. Take himself on a property-wide run, find the storage, maybe sort out where his arm was just for the fun of it. Even if he was an Avenger now, and that was a pretty big if, all he had to do was all he ever had to do anymore: wait for orders.

But he didn’t sleep.

In Wakanda he’d found it more restful. It was wholly outside anything he’d ever done, anywhere he’d ever been, not that either of those were big lists. But importantly, it didn’t remind him of anything either. They left him mostly alone and the air was lighter there, easier to breathe. When he couldn’t sleep he could go outside, stand beneath millions more stars than he could ever remember, and be content with that much. He didn’t really sleep much there, either, but it mattered a lot less.

The bed here was wrong. He thought maybe too soft, flimsy, but part of it was the tight folds and how constricted he felt. He tried to pull the sheets free but it didn’t help. This room had small windows but they let in too much light and he could see just about everything. Or maybe not light enough; the shadows on the wall seemed too dramatic to come from so little furniture. He was torn between which he’d prefer, light enough to see and be kept awake, or darkness enough to sleep and be vulnerable.

Not sure when, but at some point he thought maybe controlled darkness would be best. There was room enough beneath the bed, if he laid on his back, so he took a pillow and the comforter off the bed. He hung the sheets so they blocked out light and hid beneath the bed. Nobody’d get in without him seeing them first, the sheets rustling at least. And he hated the hard floor and tried to use the comforter to buffer it, but it was a little more familiar. Hiding out was better than lying around waiting for something bad to happen. If he shut his eyes tight enough, he could almost pretend this was more like the war than the Winter Soldier.

The only reason one was marginally better than the other was Steve. Was the team, he tried to tell himself. The group. Someone would be on lookout and they’d tell stories and laugh and drink and the ground was hard but the company more than made up for it.

Here it was cold. Not the biting, snowy winds, not the cold night against his back when his face was turned towards a fire. It didn’t sting so much but it did ache, something drastic missing. His arm hurt, he realized. Radiating down to the nonexistent fingertips, and the remnants of bone in his shoulder gnawed at him. It felt raw, like instead of missing an arm he was missing the musculature, and all that was left were ligaments and sinews ratcheted down over his bones. Maybe he’d sleep better if he didn’t put images like that in his own head. But while it hurt the rest of him ached. He’d pretend it was a consequence of being a hundred years old, or of wounds outside just the arm. But it hurt the same way looking at his own name hurt; viscerally, embarrassingly, somewhere in his stomach. And all he wanted was to sleep.

At least beneath the bed he couldn’t toss and turn. When he thought maybe the room was getting light around him he crawled his way out of the makeshift cave and checked the time, and it was just barely six. He didn’t have anywhere to be but there wasn’t much point in staying in here.


	2. It's Complicated

Run and forget. Push down the tooth-grinding embarrassment that was the only way he could sleep at night. Try to imagine that all night he hadn’t distracted himself from bitter memories by focusing instead on phantom pains. Run, run fast, run with your back straight and your head up and without seeing a single thing you passed. 

He didn’t really know how he felt about running. Today, waiting for the sun to actually rise, when he knew others would be awake but nobody seemed to be out running along the trails, he thought he might like it. But laps around the track or the football field were prescribed and supervised, and running in groups was boot camp grunt work, and running in, out, and around danger was something totally different. He’d never had much problem with running but it came a lot easier now. And that was useful when he had things to do. Trying to wear himself out, not so much, but at least he could spend a lot of time on it. He planned for an hour, maybe two if possible. 

He actually wasn’t sure anymore what the limits were. The geographic limits of the whole compound, aside from the more obvious driveway and gate outside the main building. The physical limits of his own stamina and strength, especially without the robot arm. The limits of his own mind—how far could he stretch it, push it around, force it to forget and remember? But running out here was a good way to test them all. A lot of the campus was manicured lawns and landing pads, and he ran across them all like the runaway he never meant to be. He went into the woods, along paths that were barely wide enough for one foot in front of the other. It helped hide the campus from prying eyes to have forest, and it broke up the terrain. He was more familiar with forests as he’d known them overseas; it would always eat away at him that he’d grown up in one city for so long and all this woods had been just a few hours away. 

The sun started to crest over distant trees. He hiked his way out of the patch he was in, and stood watching for a while. It wasn’t snowy yet and it wasn’t bitter cold, and the lightening sky was more gray than anything else. But a sunrise was a sunrise, and that was one small comfort. One more day, just keep taking things one day at a time. 

After a bit he sat down. It was a little nicer to watch the sun having to crane his neck to see it. Gave him more of that sense of wonder. The rays were still a little warm when they managed to get around all the trees. He closed his eyes to it. He could almost pretend this was Wakanda, like he had any right to think of it so fondly. Or this could be the roof of his apartment, or the fire escape, and he and Steve climbed out together. This could be the beach when they’d spent all night away—the quiet, nice part when the tides were changing and they could enjoy it a little longer even knowing they’d be in a mess of trouble when they got back. 

His eyes stung, so he opened them. Sun in the sky, blue seeping back around it. What the hell, he was alone and there wasn’t much chance anyone would be around for a while. If he was gonna cry—and he did so extremely reluctantly, in case anyone was around—better be because the air was too cold after all and the sun was in his eyes and there were a million excuses.

He rubbed his eyes callously and took to running again. It probably hadn’t even been an hour and he had so much day ahead of him. If he couldn’t sleep to pass the time he’d have to do anything else. He had to keep running, and try to fall so mindlessly into it that he stayed out there for much longer than the odd hour. Run and forget, run and ignore, run and pretend you didn’t cry at a sunrise because of all the mornings you’d never get back. 

His feet started to hurt before his lungs did. He hadn’t run so much in a long time. When he thought to stop again the sun was more secure and the campus seemed a little more bustling. He could see from here a couple shapes in the sky, a couple fliers; he really hoped one of them wasn’t Sam. Sam would probably stop and talk to him and he wasn’t in the mood. He did like the guy—all things considered he owed Sam more than he could pay back, and that was a pretty big incentive on top of his reluctant admiration—but he wasn’t sure how to answer the standard small talk. He wasn’t doing “good,” but maybe not so bad. He didn’t wanna talk about what he was doing, what he’d just finished. He didn’t know where he was going. The weather was fine, he didn’t have opinions on that. Not ones to share, anyway.

Just to keep a low profile he walked back from there. One of the fliers was Sam after all, but he looked busy with patrols. The campus had pretty good surveillance but with the kinds of threats they saw anymore sometimes a human presence felt necessary. Maybe that was one of the duties he could take on around here, so he wouldn’t have to leave the grounds but he could at least take a little time to be out around them. It would make him look useful, and diligent. It was basic enough he didn’t need a robot arm to do it. 

Then again, so was Spanish homework. Maybe Peter would ask him to help with the rest of it, which would take a few more hours than either of them planned because things like that always did. Maybe Peter would have that movie list for him, and not that he wanted to spend all day watching movies but a few hours for each one definitely filled up his day quicker than most other plans he could make. 

And, of course, nothing was stopping him from seeing Steve. Nothing but Steve’s own schedule, really. There was a little more freedom in that than he was used to, a little closer to being normal. In the war he saw him every day and more often than not they were camping together and bunking together and in general getting sick of stepping on each other now that Steve took up more room. He remembered it more nostalgically than it deserved, he was well aware, but in the war one thing he hadn’t liked was even with Steve always there they were chaperoned. Not many moments alone, not like everyday life long before that. Steve was busy, Steve had a real job somehow, but between obligations he wasn’t constantly surrounded. Bucky could get him alone. 

Not that he had much invested in that. So far today the campus was busier—maybe normal, he wouldn’t know for a little while. He snuck back in across an empty landing pad. But he caught a glimpse from there of Tony out front, so he kept close to the wall. Really better to avoid him for awhile until things settled. He remembered enough of the building’s layout to avoid common spaces, and if he listened even halfway he could hear people coming. He would be known to Steve’s friends, for better or worse, but to the rest of the new Avengers he wasn’t sure where he stood. He’d only met most of them in passing.

He made it back to his wing. He was just in time to see Steve, leaving out of Bucky’s room, his eyes doing that beaten-puppy, creased eyebrows, long face look. But he saw Bucky and made no effort to hide his relief.

“I was looking for you,” he explained quickly. Bucky didn’t think to be worried until then, until he thought about Steve seeing the state of the bed or daring to look through the desk drawers.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” he said, a little more terse than he wanted. “Just running.”

“There’s a meeting,” Steve said. “I didn’t want you to miss it.”

Bucky stared blankly at him. “A meeting.”

“Yeah. For the team.” Steve stepped out of the doorway, which made him look less suspicious. “It’s not as painful as it sounds.”

“I’m invited?” 

“Of course. Everyone is.” One of the most comforting things about Steve was how easy it was to see his discomfort. He didn’t fidget really, but he stood stiffly and didn’t look you in the eye. But being obvious about his thoughts didn’t make up for how nervous it made Bucky. “Did you sleep okay?”

He was right to be nervous. Exactly what he hoped Steve wouldn’t notice. “Fine.”

Steve and his holier-than-thou face. He held his gaze for a minute and Bucky broke first.

“You can come find me,” Steve said. 

He laughed dryly. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to get by on your own.” 

He’d taught Steve too well. Never imagined his own words being used against him. He’d really underestimated the lengths of Steve’s memory, too. 

“I’m fine,” he repeated, mumbling. He was too proud to say he didn’t want to talk about it. But Steve got the message. He usually did.

Steve broke the tension with another step away from the door. “We should go.”

“Do we have to?” he protested lightly. When Steve smiled he finally felt more at ease.

“You’ll wanna be there,” Steve promised. 

He couldn’t imagine why. People he didn’t know for a team he wasn’t even sure he was on. Yeah, it sounded painful. He didn’t get nearly enough sleep for something like this.

It probably didn’t matter he wasn’t in a uniform. Steve wasn’t; it seemed overkill anyway. They were gathering in a conference room like this really was just a staff meeting, or even less official than that. He thought about leaving now, before things got going, but Steve looked unusually eager. Maybe he was right, maybe he really did wanna be here. Maybe he had to stay long enough to find out. 

With Steve he was one of the first people in. He’d just sit where Steve did and occupy himself with trying to memorize the scratches in the glass table immediately around him, but almost as soon as they found seats the free one beside him was taken by Peter.

“Hey,” the kid said hurriedly. He set a notebook on the table—a packet stuck haphazardly out of it. “This is my first Avengers meeting so I gotta pay attention, but I thought you could help me finish this before it starts.”

He wanted to be irritated—the kid was making him into a tutor in front of all the superheroes, and he was supposed to be the barely reformed murderer—but really he was relieved. He replied without facing Peter, “We gotta be fast.”

Of course when the kid opened the notebook and pulled out the packet he paid attention. And he took the time to skim the open pages of the notebook, which were just assorted lists of movie titles crossed out, reordered, underlined. He guessed, anyway. It didn’t look finalized so he didn’t mention it, since the kid clearly had no issue finding him.

He could feel Steve’s eyes but he didn’t want to know what kinda look he was getting. And he kept focused on the homework when he noticed Tony walking in. Perfectly helpful, totally supervised. No cause for concern here. Tony didn’t pay him any particular attention, yet.

It had shocked him to get the news. After everything in Wakanda, when they let him keep the vibranium arm and he’d helped clean up the battlefield and when it seemed like he’d imagined the whole alien invasion, he thought that was the new normal. He thought pretty assuredly he lived in Wakanda. Steve went back and took all his new friends, his exile ended, and Bucky lived out on a farm with a few families who liked him well enough but left him alone when he wanted. He tried constantly to forget but perpetually remembered that fight, more than most others. He figured everyone else had moved on and at least he had a good thing going. It was lonely, he hated to admit, but it was peaceful. He saw Shuri more regularly than anyone else. He adjusted to chores and changed the language he spoke and was thinking about trying to work past the really old shit in the back of his mind. And then T’Challa came with Shuri the last time, and he was afraid it was another fight. 

They told him he was allowed back home. Back to the custody of the Avengers, anyway. He was prepared to fight another war and they told him the war was over. He’d waited eighty years to hear that.

What was so surprising about it was the prearranged circumstances. He was going to stay with the Avengers, at the campus built by Tony Stark, who rightfully hated him. That Tony had agreed to let him back, to let him near anything he valued. He’d forgiven Steve but that made more sense; they were friends and Steve was useful and Steve hadn’t actually done much wrong. Bucky probably hadn’t earned the same kind of forgiveness. He probably never would. But Tony allowed this. So Bucky was real hesitant to see the man, in case he did any little thing that proved he wasn’t really trustworthy.

“Someone’s trying to talk to you,” Peter alerted him suddenly. Of course he’d zone out right when he needed to seem put together.

Peter pointed and Bucky followed. He saw Shuri—breaking away from Okoye, waving just to make a show of it—and he felt right at ease. She was one of his friends. 

“They broke you in a day,” she lamented teasingly. “I can’t come back here to keep fixing you all the time.”

“You won’t need to,” he assured her. This felt more normal than anything else on the campus so far. “I’m actually in the middle of something.”

“So you don’t want the gift I brought you?” she said smugly.

He grinned. “I didn’t say that.”

She laughed. Then she reached into a pocket and retrieved a small device—some kind of smartphone, maybe, but he hadn’t seen a lot of them. It did have a screen, which lit up as she handed him the device.

“I engineered this for you,” she explained. “It’s mostly just a normal phone, but it will communicate with your arm and can send me messages directly if something is damaged.”

He shrugged slightly, just to accentuate the empty space. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it would be kinda hard to monitor something he didn’t have.

She stared for a second, like she might scoldingly ask him where he’d lost the arm. But she continued, “When you get your arm back. You can also use it to contact me or my brother. I thought you should have some way to reach us.”

“Thank you,” he said. He meant it more gratefully than that. “You sure you want me to have that kind of power?”

“I’m sure I want a direct line to one of my best inventions.” She gestured at the missing arm. “And it’s good I did, you’ve lost it already.”

They both grinned and he set the phone face down on the table. “I do appreciate it.”

“I know.” It was sincere, and with it Shuri excused herself. They both waved and it felt a lot like any day back in Wakanda, any of the random check-ups. Maybe he was better off there instead.

He remembered Peter and tried to shift back to that more mundane task. But the kid was staring at him and trying hard not to look at the phone, and before he could think of anything to say Peter blurted, “You have a vibranium arm?”

At least he got the intel briefings. But Bucky wasn’t thrilled by how many times this was gonna come up before he actually got the damn thing back. “Not right now. I think Stark’s got it.”

“You gotta let me see,” Peter insisted, dropping his voice. Like it was any secret. 

But he did nod. Peter was Tony Stark’s protege, after all. He’d get a kick out of Wakandan technology.

And while the kid quickly finished his homework the rest of the seats filled up. There was a general direction of focus, everyone half-looking up towards Tony at the end of the table with a screen. But if Bucky wanted to see him he had to look past Steve, which made it a little easier to know how he should feel about whatever agenda the meeting had. 

Tony was skimming loose sheets of paper, checking his watch, glancing at the door. And then he decided it was time to start, since he cleared his throat and stared out at the assembly rather than the exit.

“Attention, everyone,” he said over the small talk. It hushed pretty fast. “Good. Great. Okay, this is the second annual all-Avengers meeting. We’ll do the usual, old business then new business.”

Dear God. 

Tony pointed at one of his loose papers, not that anyone could see it. “First thing, thanks to everyone who’s been submitting reports. If you are not doing that, you need to start right away because it makes my job extremely hard when they’re missing.”

It was almost hilarious. He tried to imagine Howard doing anything like this—another one of Steve’s friends, really, but he’d known him enough to think the disparity here was insane. 

“And, to reiterate, if you’re staying here do not put coffee grounds down the disposal.” He seemed particularly exasperated by that one, and shot a look right at the kid. “Any other old business?”

Bucky tried to glance around the room, and was briefly mystified by how the whole eccentric group could know exactly what this meant. He was on day two at the campus and already wondering if he shoulda filed his reports.

“New business, then.” Tony pushed aside the topmost sheet of paper with one hand, and with the other hit a remote to start a presentation on the screen. 

So he sat there through Tony’s discussion of spacecraft and off-world communication and new report formats. A few others had some say in that—he recognized Thor but not the wizard, and he did have to think twice about what he was seeing. Then there was an update on threats, and a little more speaker variety on that front. Someone brought up SHIELD and then there was a discussion on what power SHIELD even had over the off-world Avengers. He was paying attention like this was an espionage mission rather than his own business. Someone needed it but certainly not him. And then Tony excused the group he called the Guardians—all from off-world—and everyone that remained talked earthbound concerns. Government negotiations, that sort of thing. That one made his skin prickle, though. According to Steve a lot of what went wrong between him and Tony started with government negotiations.

But it was uneventful. And Tony ended on one topic that Bucky had even a sliver of interest in: pending citizenships.

“First,” he said, only now instead of random loose papers he had manila folders with big SHIELD stamps, “Wanda. You’ve been granted citizenship.”

There were some soft commendations as Wanda took her folder. He’d only seen her briefly too, but they fought on the same side every time and her powers were well above his weight class. He was glad for her.

“Next is Captain Danvers. Following the precedent set by our own Steve Rogers—” Tony gestured without looking over to the man in question, “—you got your old citizenship back.”

Bucky hadn’t seen Captain Danvers before but he’d heard in the past how she’d single-handedly taken out the same aliens they’d barely held off. He wished she was around more often; she had war stories he wanted to hear.

“And last,” Tony hesitated on this one, still reading over the name on the folder, “under the same precedent, citizenship is restored to Sergeant Barnes.”

His heart stopped before he felt the eyes all turn on him. The same quiet congratulations, nobody quite so excited for someone who’d only recently turned back to an ally. All the same, he took his folder and slid out just the tops of an official letter, a reissued birth certificate, a driver’s license. Damn, a driver’s license. How Tony pulled that one he wasn’t sure, but he had all the papers again and there was something ominous about it. Did his record follow him too? Did he have outstanding warrants or extraditions in place, and now that he legally existed he could be swept right back up in it all? 

He was conflicted in how he felt until he saw Steve. Steve barely containing his joy, looking at him expectantly like this had been the big surprise. Steve who probably begged Tony for the little details like the license. He really couldn’t feel anything less than relieved. He nodded at Tony and kept his eyes down, pushing everything back into the folder. 

He existed again. He wasn’t prepared for the weight that carried.

Tony adjourned the meeting after that. Steve stood up to talk to him, amiably enough, and Bucky wasn’t pushing his luck there so he stood slowly and took his folder and the new phone. Peter congratulated him, confusedly—he figured Peter didn’t actually know who he was aside from the Winter Soldier. Then the kid promised something about the movie list and thanked him again for the homework help. Peter left quickly and Bucky walked slowly, maybe hoping Steve would catch him. Shuri did instead, her and T’Challa, and their warm words eased the last doubts he had about all this. All he could do was thank them again and hope he’d done enough with his time in Wakanda to make up for even a piece of it. 

The campus was still busy. The Guardians had only left the meeting, not the campus, but now that everyone was free there were conversations and jokes and laughter and it was more of a social hour than anything else. He saw Sam and stuck near him, not saying much, half-listening to him and the Wakandans carrying on some ongoing discussion. And when Steve and Tony finished whatever talk they were having the two rejoined everyone else. 

He was roped into a conversation with Wanda and Captain Danvers—who did prefer Captain, but introduced herself as Carol—before he could see what happened to Steve. Not that this was a bad alternative. The three of them had common cause to celebrate, and he took the opportunity to hear a little more about the paths that led them to the same place. He and Wanda fought on the same side and according to her account of things she knew about Bucky long before they actually met. Steve never let him go, apparently. And Carol outranked him officially—and technically, he thought, she outranked Steve too who was only ever made a captain as a joke. Both Carol and Bucky got too close to the Tesseract, in very different ways, and all three of them had powers now stemming from moments they were reluctant to share. He felt snubbed, honestly, when all he got was efficient enough metabolism to survive blunt trauma, blood loss and hypothermia. Carol could breathe in space and Wanda could feed dreams into people’s minds. But he could help with homework.

It was Steve to catch him in the middle of everything, after he agreed with the other two to keep up the conversation next time Carol came around. Not that he looked forward to the next big meeting but it was nice to know he’d have a group to talk to and that they all had a couple key things in common. Steve didn’t interrupt but took an opportunity to congratulate everyone—Bucky was getting sick of hearing it—and invited Carol to come back any time. Then he asked Wanda if they were still on for training in the morning and with that he pulled Bucky away.

“It feels like old times,” Steve said as soon as their backs were turned to everyone. 

“Which times?” Every event after 1943, when Steve was suddenly the center of the room and Bucky sat right in the blind spot? 

“I lose you in a crowd and you’re too busy with all your friends to notice,” Steve explained with a playful grin.

“I think you mean the times you’d run off,” he retorted lightly, “and I would have to look for you in case you’d broken a bone breathing too hard.”

“I wasn’t that fragile.”

“You were.” It struck an open wound, the thought of Steve and the old days. 

“It’s your word against mine.” Steve shrugged, glancing over his shoulder. “Who’d everyone believe?”

He had a point, but Bucky could find a few allies too. “You sure it doesn’t feel like the old times because I had to follow the lead of some scrappy kid who kept mixing me up in trouble?”

Steve’s face softened a little. “It wasn’t an easy fight this time. I really had to make them think you were enough like me to be treated like me.”

“Enough like you, huh?” 

“Enough like—” he sighed, looked away. “Like how I know you.”

“Oh.” There was a time he might’ve thought Steve was like him rather than the other way around. Maybe some of the things they had in common—the arguments Steve would make for how similar they were—were what Bucky instilled in him. But that was a long time ago. “You really convinced them to let me back in?”

“I had help,” he said quickly, like this was anything to be humble about. “It was easy to get everyone here onboard but the citizenship was harder.”

“Tell me what you had to give up,” Bucky insisted dully. There was always a catch.

Steve shook his head. “You’d do the same for me.”

He wanted to agree but he couldn’t trust his own intentions until just recently. And he was the reason Steve was in any trouble anymore, only unlike the old days there wasn’t anything he could do to get him out. So he stared Steve down. He could do a pretty mean gaze anymore.

“I had to accept all the limits for you,” Steve ultimately confessed. He wouldn’t look at Bucky anymore. “They’d only let you back if you gave up your arm and stayed on the campus here.”

“That’s it?” He didn’t believe it. “You didn’t take the fall for me, did you?”

Steve stayed quiet.

“You didn’t sign that agreement?”

“No way.” He watched the others almost sadly. “But—”

“What did you do?”

“It’s complicated.”

Bucky sighed loudly, and said without thinking: “You go through all kinds of trouble for me, and you won’t even talk to me.”

“I’m being reprimanded under the accords. I had to accept the same limits as you,” Steve explained softly. “I have to give up the shield and stay on the campus.”

“What’s complicated about that?” he asked, genuinely.

Steve looked back then. “I didn’t want to make this seem like a punishment. I didn’t want you to know.”

So that was it. It was complicated because he was ashamed, whether or not he would admit it. Two prisoners in the world’s most comfortable jail. He already accepted that, it really was more than he deserved anymore, but he could see why Steve—perfect, noble Steve—wouldn’t feel the same. Steve looked so heartbroken about it, trying not to look him in the eye but still pay him full attention, trying to be honest but skirting around what he really meant. He felt for him, he did. But why hide it at all?

He knew why. Because Steve was a loner and was too self-sacrificing to tangle people up in his problems. He’d move mountains for anyone but himself.

“I’m still your friend,” Bucky said. “You don’t have to hide. We can talk.”

“Thank you,” Steve said without believing it, “but I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” he argued. Not that he was one to talk. “I wish you were honest.”

He remembered the letter. He remembered Steve willfully choosing dishonesty—at least, choosing to avoid the truth. And he remembered the sinking fear that went with it; he was more afraid of knowing than not, of a bad real outcome than staying like this forever. 

Steve was thrown by that, though. He was good at going through the motions of deep conversations, where you’d say all the right things and pretend you really would talk when you were ready. But Steve wasn’t too good at being called on his bullshit.

“I am honest,” he asserted. “If we’re gonna talk, we should go somewhere else.”

Nobody paid them any attention—Bucky checked—but he did understand. That’s what he’d been wanting, right? To get Steve alone, to actually talk with him. To be honest. But it wasn’t a good time, not with everyone right there and things still so goddamn complicated. Bucky wouldn’t be honest himself, so he couldn’t really expect the same from Steve.

“Are you actually gonna talk?” he challenged, and Steve’s silence was answer enough.

“We can do this tonight,” Steve said eventually. “When everyone leaves.”

He nodded. That gave him time to decide what to say and a little less of an audience to overhear it. He realized how tight his shoulders were and tried to relax, and Steve did the same, and then they both muttered apologies like this had any right to be called a fight. He followed Steve around the room, making introductions, meeting all the rest of Steve’s friends more formally. He even managed a few polite words with Tony—the obligatory thanks, assurance that the campus was great so far, and a quick explanation that he was helping Peter Parker with homework.

At one point he overheard Carol talking about her own too-complicated situation with a kid and an old partner. With a little more context he gathered that “partner” meant two things and Carol was a little more guarded about which meaning she wanted everyone to take. She spoke around it, just trying to sympathize with Tony and raising kids in some conversation he didn’t hear anything else from, but he held onto it for a little. What he did take from it was a captain who missed her shot to settle down. He thought guiltily of Peggy Carter.

Most everyone had left when Steve excused himself, and Bucky took the cue to leave too. As they left Steve reminded Wanda one more time about training, and Bucky promised Shuri he wouldn’t lose the new phone, and Bucky got stuck just a little longer with some of his new friends from the day putting their own contacts in said phone—before he’d even figured out how to turn it on. 

“You should come with us tomorrow,” Steve said to him. They were well into their own wing by then, and Sam was still with the main group so the hallway and all the rooms were empty. 

“It won’t be pretty,” he warned, trying to stay lighthearted about it. 

“Doesn’t have to be.” Steve stopped in front of his own door, looking around the hall, trying to pick a place to talk. He decided unsurprisingly on his room and Bucky followed without question. Steve closed the door behind them. 

Steve had cleaned up the place since yesterday. The desk was a little more organized, at least with the loose papers arranged into a few tight stacks and the trash beneath the desk overflowing with crumpled scraps. He wondered if the letter was in there and he forced himself to forget about it. He wasn’t supposed to know it even existed, let alone what Steve wanted to do with it. He had his fair share of private letters wadded up in his own desk and if Steve ever went through them he’d probably hurl himself over the campus’ fence and be at the mercy of SHIELD. 

“I should’ve told you about my situation,” Steve admitted abruptly. Good, getting Steve to admit to something was always a productive step. “I’m trying to keep you and everyone else safe, but you’ve gotta give me something. How are you?”

“No,” he said. He’d already gone through how he wanted this talk to go. “You’ve gotta give me something. How am I supposed to think about anything else when I’m worrying about you?”

“You don’t have to worry.”

“I do anyway. You know I do.” He wished he could cross his arms; the one alone wasn’t good for much except shoving down his pocket. “I try not to.”

“I’ve been the same since I found out you were alive,” Steve said quietly, but at least he kept looking at him. “It’s why I’m in trouble now. I pushed everything else to the side.”

Okay, now they were getting somewhere. He took a deep breath. “Why’d you do it?”

“You’re my friend,” Steve answered immediately. But then he paused a second. “I couldn’t protect you and I didn’t save you before. I couldn’t let it keep happening.”

“Why’d you choose me over all this?” 

Steve laughed once at that, but it wasn’t happy. “I don’t know.”

“You do,” Bucky pressed. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear. But he was encouraged, maybe reckless. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Steve’s big blue eyes, his upturned eyebrows, the lines between them. The saddest thing he’d ever seen in the world was this face, but Steve looked like this so often he could almost get used to it. Steve murmured, “I can’t keep losing you. I can’t keep letting you down.”

“Steve.” He wanted to reach out to him, not clench his fist in his pocket. He wanted to be more like how he’d been back in the old times, when everything they said to each other was light and he could give Steve a quick hug and that was enough for them both. He’d gone off to die in the war with less of a sendoff than that. But back then he’d never done anything more serious because one misstep and everyone would know. He couldn’t bear to lose Steve for that one infuriating secret. But he couldn’t bear to keep up this cycle of unfinished hard talks either. “You could never let me down.”

“I let you die once,” Steve argued.

“You saved me before that,” Bucky insisted. He winced going back to that place, the backbreaking labor and the serums and experiments. The weapons he helped build, including the bombs that forced Steve’s plane into a crash landing. Even now he remembered that specific place groggily, but he could still recall the dreamlike shock of seeing Steve as his rescuer. “And you saved me again after.”

“You saved me plenty of times too.” Steve said it like beating up bullies counted for anything. Steve was a dumb kid but he wasn’t in much danger. The stakes weren’t high back when Bucky was the one who could do something about them. “But the wars are over now.”

“None of it’s over for me yet,” Bucky admitted softly. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and let it hang by his side. “You wanna know how I’m doing, but I don’t have much to tell you. I’m still trying to get past the Winter Soldier.”

“I can’t imagine what they did to you.” Steve half-stepped forward and stopped. He was still near the door and Bucky was closer to the middle of the room, but only now did it feel uncomfortably far. They were friends, they were used to sharing personal space and much tighter rooms than this. Still, Steve hesitated. 

“There’s so much of it I don’t remember,” Bucky said. This wasn’t part of his plan but it did feel right to speak aloud. “I wanna forget it all and get back to the way things were but I can’t.”

“I’m trying to get us back,” Steve tried to comfort him. It did feel nice when he thought about the driver’s license, even if that was a more modern gesture.

But now he was thinking about the sunrise. About seventy years ago, on fire escapes or rooftops, surviving to see yet another day. The way mornings used to be, the way he’d never get back. Steve could try all he wanted but he couldn’t bring back their old building, the familiar storefronts, the days just before war ever crossed their mind. 

“Is this why you can’t sleep?” Steve asked. He took a few real steps and now they were at a more appropriate conversational distance.

“This and everything else,” he replied dryly. But he was a little humored too. “I can’t get my mind to quiet down.”

Steve nodded, and it better not be sympathetic. No way did Steve deserve anything but rest. 

“While we’re being honest,” Bucky said without thinking it through, “I’m sorry. I still feel like I don’t know who I am anymore. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you either.”

“We’re not the same as we were,” Steve mumbled, like he needed to hear it more than Bucky. “We both did what we had to. Doesn’t mean everything has to be different.”

“Guess not.” Maybe there weren’t jazz clubs anymore—not that he could go even if he wanted to—and maybe he was down an arm and both of them were half blood, half serum. But none of that was what he really missed, and he was pretty sure the longer he stood there a cold distance apart, looking at Steve’s shoes instead of his eyes, he was missing things that didn’t exist. “So where do we stand?”

Steve thought about that one. Probably more how to phrase it than what to say. He didn’t blame him. It wasn’t an easy thing but it was the crux of the conversation: who were they? And how did that fit together? Old buddies didn’t really cover it anymore, no matter what he thought or wanted.

“We’re still friends,” Steve said firmly. And he met Bucky’s eyes for it. “Nothing can change that.”

Bucky nodded, glad to hear that much. He believed it.

“But we have to catch up,” Steve added. “I don’t know if that’s something we can do in a night.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. And he meant it generally, but part of him wished Steve had thought of it specifically. They could’ve sat on the floor, backs to the bed, and tried to step through everything. At least make some headway into it, a little more impactful than this vague promise of being honest and catching up. But he had something, at least. He knew that Steve was stuck here with him, subject to the same restrictions. And he knew Steve missed him—maybe irrationally, maybe more because of his own guilt than anything he felt towards Bucky. But it was enough, for now. Bucky was a practical person in many ways but he hung onto small hints of nothing when it came to Steve.

Looking in his eyes, he finally didn’t feel so scrutinized. This felt right, and more importantly it felt normal. Steve wasn’t supposed to see him as a monster, or a project, or a pet. Steve was supposed to see him like this, and there weren’t any strings attached. Maybe things weren’t complicated. Maybe they didn’t need to be, and he could just be Steve’s friend and they could catch up after all the wars like they were meant to do. Without thinking he hugged Steve.

He was grateful, that was all. And he didn’t need to feel any other way about it when Steve hugged back.


	3. Howling Commando

He didn’t sleep much better. It should’ve been easy, he should’ve been exhausted. Not even knowing what to do from the start made a dent in how little sleep he got. But he didn’t hurt quite so much, more kept awake by pieces of memories forming in all the wrong ways. He had a lot to process himself, much less try to explain to Steve.

But he dragged himself up at dawn anyway, and complained to himself about the hand-me-down clothes, and splashed water on his face. He’d avoided mirrors for a while but he was sick of the glimpses he kept catching, the long hair he hadn’t managed to cut and the eyes he didn’t recognize. They’d been blue longer than they were ever brown—old photos didn’t capture the difference, really, but his memory here was cemented. He shipped out one way, and Steve found him another. He could shave, cut his hair, look every part normal, but that would never go back. 

He checked Steve’s room first. Open door, like always, and its occupant nowhere to be found. The desk a little neater and other scattered boxes finally put away. Maybe Steve didn’t sleep either, but at least he put his shit away.

So he moved on to Sam’s room. Sam was there; he was glad this time to see him, and to talk a little about things that weren’t just wars. He asked to see the new phone—Bucky had to go back and get it, and learned at the same time apparently it was typical to keep these things with you all the time—and he asked casually about Wakanda. Nothing about the forties, nothing about the old times at all, nothing about a seventy year career as an assassin. And he tried to ask about Sam based on the little he knew, about DC and the wings but dodging around the few times they went toe to toe. And eventually he asked where Steve might be and Sam, helpful but no more wise to Steve’s schedule, suggested outside.

It was colder this morning, a little closer to how winter was supposed to feel. Even if it was familiar he didn’t have to like it; he’d gotten so used to the cold because of the war and the ice and the name they’d given him. He would have plenty of time to think about that if he couldn’t find Steve, so he pushed it out of his mind and wandered at a walk. Around huge windows, landing pads, manicured lawns. Out to the woods. He’d come this far and if he really tried he could probably track Steve—that was one survival skill the Winter Soldier didn’t give him.

But he would rather go running. He wasn’t fast like Steve, missing that key piece of the serum. At least he still had stamina, whatever that was good for. His missing arm did hurt, though, just enough to remind him it wasn’t even there. Like it had any right to sting against the cold, when the rest of him was more numb than anything else. Run and forget. He tried to picture himself as the only tolerable version, the Howling Commando, Captain America’s right hand. In those days he didn’t think too hard about who he was and he pushed from his mind any small thought of being captured and what they may have done to him. He didn’t need to worry about it. He wasn’t ever more than a sergeant and all he had to do was follow orders and give Steve a hard time while doing it. Nobody back home waiting for him, nothing tying him down to anything but the team. The version of himself from the museum. The one that died in 1945. 

When he decided to be done running he hadn’t gone nearly as far. Maybe he should stay out there until he made some breakthrough, keep trying to push himself back through at least one tricky memory, so it wouldn’t hang over him so much. Honestly, he wanted to talk to Sam about it. From what he’d heard, Sam’s job revolved around this. But that meant going and asking Sam if he’d be willing to really talk, and there were a whole lot of reasons he could think of to avoid that too. 

It didn’t matter. His best efforts to sneak back inside were interrupted by none other than Steve, tailed by Wanda, just leaving the kitchen. All this damn time he’d spent literally running around and they were in one of the few places he could actually find.

“Bucky!” Steve called out to him, like there was any way Bucky could’ve missed him. But he did like the sound of the name, especially the way Steve said it.

He waved and walked to them. Honestly he felt a little embarrassed about it. “Sorry I missed it.”

Steve shook his head. “We were just looking for you so we could start.”

“It’s my fault,” Wanda added jokingly. “I slept in.”

He got the feeling she didn’t really—he wasn’t sure, but with her powers she could probably tell where he’d been the whole time anyway. But, they were friends, and he appreciated it anyway. Glad at least he hadn’t missed his one plan for the day.

“Good,” was all he said. He hoped it sounded enthusiastic enough. 

Steve beckoned them both along, and they headed back outside. He may as well have just stayed out there, let them find him in the trees and get a few more laps in. Steve set the pace at just a walk—not even particularly fast, and that made Bucky nervous for whatever training this was gonna be. A demand that would take all their energy, or a surprise coming at any second? He wasn’t much for surprises anymore. And Steve had a pack with him, which could have just about anything in it as far as he could see.

They headed down one of the footpaths. He probably went this way at some point, but there were a lot of half-pressed trails and the woods barely counted as woods so it didn’t really matter if you stuck to a trail or not. They made for the middle of the trees and he kept looking for signs of whatever training this was—an obstacle course, an arsenal, even a clearing with a few sticks—and they just walked on. And then, with nothing distinguishing this patch of sparse trees from any of the others, Steve stopped.

Well, there was grass in sight. Steve stopped there, right at the edge of a path crossing into the grass. It was a lawn just like any of the rest of the campus but Bucky figured it was far enough away from the building itself to feel private. He liked that much about the layout of the campus, and its location; nobody really knew where it was and there were more than a few places to get away from all eyes entirely. 

Steve scanned the grass and then sat down where it ended. Wanda sat with him, a few feet away, both of them facing the sun. Not one to make waves in a training exercise, Bucky copied them. Steve and Wanda were talking quietly about times, debating ten minutes or five, settling on ten. And then Steve pulled a compass out of the pack—not just a compass, _his_ compass, from the war. But Bucky was pretty sure he remembered a picture in it and now there wasn’t anything. Steve checked it like he was checking the time and sat the compass down beside him, and then turned to Bucky.

“We do a few minutes of this first,” he explained without clearing up anything.

“What are we doing?”

“Breathing,” Steve answered. 

Insightful. But he figured he could do that much, sit and breathe. Steve really knew how to pick activities that played to the widest possible audience. He faced forward and tried not to think too much about what training _this_ was preparation for. 

He was getting sick of that idea, of training. Like they were horses or something being put through paces just to cement it in their minds. Like the word “practice” was too childish anymore, now that this was the big leagues. Couldn’t superheroes just practice? He was curious how good his aim was anymore; he’d been a trained sniper before a super soldier, but hadn’t put that skill to use for a few years now. 

But now that he thought about it—between deep, conscious breaths—maybe Steve called this training because if he’d said anything else Bucky wouldn’t have wanted to come. And that wasn’t true. Bucky would go anywhere if Steve asked, and if they weren’t gonna fight he was more eager to participate. Being invited to sit and breathe in the cold morning wasn’t exciting, granted. He would think twice about it before agreeing to go, but he would always go. 

The only task was breathing. He had to remind himself of it. The freezing air barely negated by the sun, the cold but thankfully dry ground, the dew still evaporating from the grass just ahead of him. There were lots of things to look at while he breathed. He almost thought about it with a tactical lens, as if this was a potential battlefield and he needed to take in the speed and direction of the wind as well as the glare of the sun and any potential pitfalls in the field. How would he approach it if this were a Howling Commando mission? That was a mindset he could fall comfortably back into. It was where his mind kept going, anyway. 

It wasn’t healthy to be perpetually stuck in the past. He knew that. And usually he tried his damndest to be as far from the past as possible. But it was hard when he didn’t have much tethering him here, to a time that had once been the distant future. And it was hard when the current him had so much to answer for. Trying to remember and trying to forget, and trying to balance the past with the present. He didn’t want to go back, though. Not really. There wasn’t any more for him back then. At least Steve was here, he thought, and then he tried to ignore it. At least he was still alive, and relatively safe to be around, because that was all that should really matter.

“Okay,” Steve said, and he was glad to be done with sitting and breathing. He hadn’t thought much about breathing anyway. Steve closed the compass, put it back in a pocket of the backpack, and unzipped the main one. “Buck, do you want a novel, a journal, or a sketchbook?”

“I, uh, what?” He didn’t process the list at first. He was ready for a weapon, or a challenge, and he was still thinking about Steve’s watch and its missing photo. “What are we training for again?”

“Focus,” Steve said immediately. It was a prepared answer, but not the whole one. He glanced past Steve to see what Wanda had picked—a novel, apparently—and it occurred to him this might not be training. This might just be… fun. Or if it was training, and training focus, it wasn’t anything he’d ever been taught before. Clarity, attention. They were expected of him—demanded, really, from the army, HYDRA, and everyone in between—but there wasn’t training, there wasn’t practicing. One day he was a soldier like anyone else and the next he was holding his breath, staring down the scope of a rifle. Expectations, quotas, standards. The day after, an assassin. Silence, compliance, deception. 

But not calm. Cold and measured, tight-lipped, rigid, precise, driven to the point of obsession by an unhealthy, unstudied dedication to focus. Silence didn’t mean peace, and he hadn’t had the chance to feel the latter for a while.

He chose the journal. He wrote out in longhand, following his stream of consciousness without straying too far down something that was painful. He wasn’t sure if he’d have to give this back to Steve—if it would get read. But it was an exercise in staying with something, so he played along. He wrote about himself because it was the only thing that stuck in his mind long enough for this; he wrote about how he wanted to see himself, following the day’s recurring theme. It really wasn’t so much about the actual time, he wrote. It was the situation. He liked being wanted but not needed, having a small part in a bigger movement. He liked seeing himself as helpful, as useful, as someone who could get a job done. But he didn’t want all eyes on him. He didn’t want to lead. He wanted to fight by choice.

That was a big thing, he realized after writing it. To fight _by choice_ . He’d follow Steve into battle any day but he always, always chose that. Not to be conscripted anymore, made into the perfect soldier, given orders so strong he couldn’t resist even if he was lucid enough to want to. No more calls to action, no more running away from fights because he _didn’t do that anymore_ and nobody believed him. Why did atoning mean getting tangled up in more wars? Why couldn’t he be useful for anything else? 

He closed his eyes. And all he saw was guns, snow, flecks of blood against the white, blizzards incoming, tunnel vision, the words. The goddamn words. He didn’t remember them specifically but he remembered what they did to him, and how everything narrowed the minute someone said the first one. And he saw Steve, the shield, both of them shrinking and him falling and the cliff that caught his arm and sliced it clean off. It stabbed sharply down the remains, down the phantom limb. He couldn’t help flinching at it.

And he opened his eyes again to keep writing. Stay with it, stay all the way to the end. Focus. He wanted to see himself one way but circumstances made him another. He wanted to make the choice whether or not he was a soldier, not have it forced on him even by the best-intended people. No matter what he wanted and who he thought he was, he had a reputation now. A criminal record, more like. But, that had landed him first in Wakanda where they took out the most dangerous part of him—coincidentally the one thing above all else that could force him into anything—and then it put him here. If he thought about where he really wanted to be, it was somewhere safe and secluded where he couldn’t be made to pick up a gun ever again if he didn’t want to. Somewhere the past wasn’t exactly hidden but it wasn’t held against him. And that was here. 

After closing the journal he exhaled deeply. Genuinely felt like he’d been holding his breath. But now his shoulders were a little more relaxed and the jarring pain subsided from his arm. He glanced over at Steve—and guessed from the movement of his pencil he was drawing. And past him, Wanda had leaned against a tree and held her book up to block the sun while she read. 

He wasn’t sure how long training lasted. So, with nothing else to do and very little planned for the rest of his day, he opened the journal back up to a clean page and wrote about anything else.

When Steve finally called it off—one quick check to his compass first—it could’ve been hours. More than likely it was only one. He handed back the journal and Wanda returned her book, and Steve carried the pack with him while they walked back. They talked quietly like nothing had happened, like bantering old friends, and Bucky didn’t know what to say so he listened. The latest details in Wanda’s book—Steve apparently had already read it—and what she thought was gonna happen, and the kind of thing she wanted to read next. She asked what Steve was drawing and he replied like he did this all the time, that it wasn’t anything important and he only drew little things. And maybe it was true but Bucky still wondered. He wished Wanda would ask again but this was an old routine and apparently she knew better.

When they got back Wanda went her own way and Steve started for their wing. Probably on his own schedule, busy with whatever he did all day. Bucky went to the kitchen. He ate alone near a window that looked out on landing pads. And he wondered while he was there if he shoulda been doing something more productive. They brought him back here— _Steve_ brought him back—and all he had to do anymore was wait around. Sure, he couldn’t leave, so Avengers missions were off the table, but he wasn’t useless. Should he be prepared for something? 

He went with Steve to the end of the world a couple times now. He was experienced enough to do something tangibly good. 

After cleaning up after himself—he wasn’t about to make Tony mad—he went to find Sam. Coincidentally, he caught Sam on his way to find Bucky. His plan was just to see what Sam was doing, and if there was something he could do to help, and Sam had an actual list of things for Bucky. The official orientation, actually—a whole sheet of paper, printed out, stepwise instructions and clearly a necessity with new Avengers cropping up all the time. Sam asked him if he’d already had this talk, if Steve went through it, and Bucky said no. It figured, according to Sam. Even bound by protocol Steve wasn’t much for it. And when it came to Bucky everything went to one side and Steve didn’t think about duties. That was Sam’s take, at least, and Bucky wasn’t sure why it made his heart ache.

There were instructions on easy things, like the wifi password and codes for certain doors. Sam sped through those ones, which he was grateful for, and then they got to general house rules and all of those made sense too. Then they got to the monthly order—which was maintained in a computer or website or something, and anyway was accessible from just about any intranet-connected device in the compound. Sam walked him through that, said to order anything he wanted since Stark was footing the bill, and that it was expected anyone new to the compound would end up buying a lot of random shit. And he laughed in spite of himself, and thanked Sam for the introduction to the future. 

The next thing was more tricky: registering for duties. There were communication lines and networks, everyone living off-campus managing themselves for the most part and everyone on-campus assigned to various missions or chasing their own projects. Sam tried not to say it, but he couldn’t get around reminding Bucky that, because he was stuck on the campus, he couldn’t really interact with any of the missions. He could access the schedule, though—for all the useful things like reserving conference rooms or places in the gym. And he still had the databases, the various resources, and maybe that wasn’t the smartest idea but it was a significant display of trust. He did appreciate that. And, missions or no, he was expected to sign up for guard duties.

None of it meant fighting. No wars, no battles, no missions and no orders. A simple chore that got him outside for a little bit and that was it. He could do that much. Hell, he could do more but he was glad to be something a little different from a soldier.

And Sam finished up the paper by handing it to him. “The one thing this place doesn’t have is doctors, but I’m not sure that’ll affect you too much.”

“We’ll find out,” he said amiably. He wasn’t too sure about doctors anymore—hadn’t had enough of a need aside from his mind, and Shuri was more capable than anyone else he knew. 

“And,” Sam said it quieter, but with conviction, “if you want to talk, I can listen. It can help.”

He looked at Sam more seriously. “I appreciate it, but it’s a long story. I wouldn’t wanna bore you.”

“Try me.” Sam half-smiled and crossed his arms. “I already heard Captain America’s side of that story. You can’t get more boring than how Steve tells it.”

He laughed once, compelled but not enough. Steve’s version of events had the moral high ground, and Bucky’s… His side was the villain right up until recently. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Sam looked like he had more to say but he didn’t. He probably had his own thoughts, questions even. Bucky almost wished he’d ask, and they could clear the air a lot faster. Sam trusted him more than most but he knew there were still suspicions and rightfully so. And maybe he did wanna talk, but not first. He couldn’t exactly just seek Sam out, sit him down, and start right in the thick of every memory that bothered him. If he couldn’t say it to Steve, what was the use in talking with anyone else?

Or maybe that was exactly the point. He did care how Sam saw him, more so than anyone else around here, but Sam was a step removed from the one person whose opinion really, truly mattered. Sam knew the story and was an active participant in a lot of the recent turns. Maybe it really would be helpful. 

“Actually,” he said before he could talk himself out of it, “there’s something.”

Not much for description. He wasn’t about to get into all of it, just enough to get started. Get a few things off his chest. But Sam found a chair in that room and sat, and that was invitation enough to get comfortable himself. 

“You’d think,” he stopped himself preemptively, trying to find the words and decide what to say at all, “after everything, it wouldn’t be so bad. It really isn’t. But my eyes weren’t always this color.”

“I didn’t know,” Sam replied simply. Proved he was listening, at least.

“This happened after I was captured the first time.” He hated the clarification. Once was enough; the first time he could almost forgive himself for, since he did everything in his power to get away and actively undid what damage he was responsible for at the time. They forced him, Steve said once—Steve said it about the second time he was captured—but it didn’t change anything. He still did it. “They were different when Steve got me out. I didn’t really care back then but now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“It’s something you can’t change,” Sam reasoned. “Something that was done to you that can’t be undone.”

“Yeah.” It was obvious but his tone was comforting. Bucky couldn’t help but agree. “Nobody would know but Steve. I don’t think he’s ever noticed.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” Sam offered, but it wasn’t fact. He didn’t say it knowingly, just hopefully.

“Everyone sees the arm,” Bucky continued. “The words, the Winter Soldier. It’s not a secret. But this isn’t common knowledge. It’s something only I see and I can’t change it.”

Sam thought about that, but not long enough for Bucky to keep talking. “People see you a different way than you want to be seen.”

“And there’s nothing I can do about it. They took that away from me.” He felt ridiculous saying it aloud when he’d written it all down earlier. But he also couldn’t make himself stop. “They took a lot from me. I lost any chance of going back to the way things were.”

“It’s not easy to face that,” Sam agreed. He didn’t know much about Sam, but he knew Sam lost people well before he was an Avenger. “Things don’t go back and it feels like something’s missing for a long time. You’re different than you were. Doesn’t mean it’s a bad different, and it doesn’t mean everything stops.”

“I know,” he said when he really didn’t. He’d considered it before, and would do it again now. This was his life and it could still be just fine. It still had everything that mattered. But he didn’t like how little say he had in anything anymore.

“Everyone takes their time,” Sam said too. 

That part stuck with him. They talked a little longer but Bucky cut it off pretty soon after that, deciding now that he was properly oriented he had other things to attend to besides talking vaguely about how he felt. He thanked Sam, though. It actually was insightful.

He found his list of supplies from the day before and got a few things ordered. He was still on the fence about things to do with his room, and a little unsure about buying clothes, but the dismally empty room and secondhand closet needed something more. He was okay with filling the space a little more than this. When he was done ordering just about everything that came to mind he was reminded about the phone, his phone. So he checked it and tried to find new messages as deftly as everyone else seemed to be with it. There were a couple—Shuri leaving him instructions for how to use the damn thing, the raccoon asking again if he’d consider selling his robot arm, Peter asking when he’d be around to watch movies. And one from Steve, asking if he’d want to get dinner.

That one made him set the phone down. He left it in his room and almost went to run again, just to get far, far away from _that_. Steve was old—Bucky was too, but with the benefit of spy training and some capacity to use technology. It was new and wrong, everything like he’d just said with Sam about how things were so different. But the more he was unsettled by texting with Steve goddamn Rogers the more he was equally hung up on dinner. Not that it should be any different from any other meal, but he was reading into it. Three days back and Steve was finally taking him to dinner. He wished it could be the other way around. He wished he didn’t feel almost giddy about it despite everything else. 

And then he had an idea.

Maybe he’d feel calmer about everything if he had a reminder that not everything changed. If he could see for himself not everything about Steve was modern and new. What better way than to look through Steve’s drawings? Bucky was programmed for espionage, it wouldn’t be remotely hard to walk into Steve’s room and look through notebooks and leave no trace. Yeah it wasn’t exactly trustworthy but Steve didn’t withhold drawings from him. They used to do it together, even if Bucky was utterly hopeless as an artist. So long as he didn’t look for any secret letters at the same time it really wasn’t so bad. And, even though the idea of the letter still hung in his mind, he had even less interest in reading it now. 

But inside Steve’s room, he changed the plan a little when he saw the morning’s backpack. He knew for sure Steve had drawn in that book, something he couldn’t say for any of the ones stacked up on the desk. So he unzipped the backpack and carefully picked the familiar notebook, and had to set it down just to flip through. Steve’s comfortable, familiar style of drawings. Sketches of buildings, landscapes, scenes. Notes about what he wanted to try, what he was drawing, what he’d been doing on a particular day. He was guiltily relieved with each page, more of the same pretty handwriting and little sketches taking in the world. More than a few memories and for those Bucky felt a little sharper guilt—the woods they’d traversed for months at a time during the war, the small bars and bivouacs, liquor bottles. Steve drew maps and traced routes in them. He drew buildings, the old Brooklyn side by side with the new one. Ships, cars, but also deer and crows and the signs of bigger predators they hoped not to see. Dogs too, of course. They’d talked a few times, half-serious, about getting a puppy. Spots around the campus, sometimes. Memories of the modern world.

And, on the latest page, Bucky. He could’ve dropped the book then and gotten himself out but… One drawing of Bucky writing—a snapshot directly taken of the morning—but a couple others of his face. Some of them clean shaven and young, memories rather than reality. Like looking in a mirror, almost, except Steve drew him more forgiving. Maybe Steve drew him how he saw him.

He closed the book gently as he could manage, and replaced it in the backpack. Easy enough to make it so nothing ever happened. And—like it or not, even with the rest of his history in indiscriminate pieces—he had a good memory. If it were a mission he remembered it, albeit disconnected and difficult to recall from nothing. And everything since then was sharper, which hurt him more because everything he actually wanted to remember happened long ago. So this was something he would remember, maybe one of the few worthwhile things.

He regretted it a little. Not enough, though. It was superseded by the drawings themselves. And how, maybe, things really were different for the better. Steve had drawn him before, rarely but more than once—more of a study, he always said. Steve drew people less than anything else and Bucky was the only repeated subject. Maybe that meant something. Maybe it went along with this new world. In the old days they didn’t talk much about art, nothing beyond professional academic talks and Steve’s studies. He always thought Steve wanted to say more. And he wanted to hear it, just to let Steve speak bluntly about things he loved. 

Shit, he wanted to talk about the things _he_ loved too. And he did, sometimes. In guarded ways, in specific, practiced patterns. In those days he wouldn’t dare get any more honest than that. Maybe with everything else different, he’d consider it. 

But before any of that—or, maybe, to avoid it—he went to the phone again. Told Peter he was around now, told Steve he was ready any time. The kid found him pretty soon after, and dragged him along to a screening room which was really just a whole theater. The kid settled on some sci-fi thing, then went back out to gather anyone else interested. And Bucky really underestimated the draw of whatever movie this was when Peter came back with Sam and, of all people, Tony Stark himself. He expected Stark to turn around immediately but he didn’t. A reluctant peace. He was starting to think his idea of keeping his head down around Tony wasn’t the best; if he wanted to prove himself a safe and tolerable ally, he should be acting more like it. More like Steve.

He wasn’t much for movies in the old days and the new days weren’t that much different. Entertaining, sure, much more realistic and more theatrical of a performance. He laughed when it seemed right and listened to the explanations the kid whispered and the comments Sam added. It was fun, but more for the company. Even Tony, uncharacteristically quiet—so he’d heard—but amused by Peter. Eventually Tony joined in the conversation, and everyone spoke low to be considerate. Bucky nodded when they looped him in, replied quickly when they asked something to him. He had to give Peter a rundown on what he thought, what questions he had, and when he’d be around to continue in the series. Damn, a long-term commitment. But the group seemed enthusiastic enough to assemble again, and who was he if not a dutiful team member?

Turns out the compound schedule was for much more than just guard duty rotations. At Peter’s urging Tony committed the screening room—theater—for weekly meetings until the series was complete, and potentially in the future. “Pending the longevity of the group,” Tony explained with a not-so-subtle look at Bucky. He’d win him over eventually, he was sure. So long as they never actually spoke directly to one another.

But he had different plans now. He thanked Peter and assured him he had plenty of fun, and that he couldn’t wait to see the next one. He got away pretty quick after that.

What was he doing? Running off to a cafeteria meal like it was a dinner date, like it was two tickets to a show and shined shoes and a dance hall next door. He used to save up every last dollar he could get to buy bus fare and flowers, he’d play carnival games for hours, he’d dance and he’d laugh and he’d order cheap drinks. He’d find a second girl because it was the perfect excuse to bring Steve along. And sometimes it’d just been him and Steve, walking street corners long after dark, staring into shop windows, getting into fights Bucky had to finish. 

He always thought, if anyone made any assumptions, he was strong enough to stick up for himself. He would protect Steve. He couldn’t protect himself from Steve, though, from what Steve might do if _he_ made assumptions.

And this wasn’t a date. This was barely a plan. Meeting because they always did, historically, and because it was convenient. He’d much rather take Steve to a penny arcade or Coney Island and he’d drag him on every ride. Steve with the newspapers in his shoes, otherwise he wasn’t tall enough. Stretch a few bucks into a few hours, win a prize for a girl but she’d left long ago so he’d give it to Steve. When they were really young, the carousel. When they got older, walking in the sand beneath the boardwalk. Running out to the waves, and Steve wanted to swim but Bucky held him back because Steve would never survive the shock or the cold. And a lot of the time they just stayed in, when they were kids of course and Steve’s mom wouldn’t be home for hours so he’d stay the night, but then Steve had an apartment to himself and they didn’t have to be chaperoned. When he was sick and couldn’t breathe and Bucky sat around with him playing cards, reading, drawing, planning what they’d do once they were old enough to do it. 

This was just dinner. But, that was more than enough once.

He thought about dressing nicer. Not that it really mattered, that anyone would notice. But he wasn’t the most presentable anymore and if Steve was gonna make some effort by inviting him in advance he should meet him halfway and treat it like a real plan. So he showered, picked grown-up clothes rather than the joggers he’d worn the past three days. Thought about his hair too and when he could get that dealt with—not tonight, but in general. If he were headed to Steve’s back in the day he’d have cash in his pocket. He dared to glance at himself in the mirror and, unkempt hair notwithstanding, he almost looked normal again. 

Respectable at the very least. He’d get there eventually. And along the way he’d fill up his own schedule. He’d sign up for guard duty and patrol the campus, one thing he could do mindlessly in a good way. It’d be doing what he did anyway, but responsibly, for everyone else rather than just for himself. He would observe, be careful and thoughtful, run and walk in equal measures, finally find the fences and test the limits of his bindings. If he was stuck here at least he’d know all of what that entailed. He’d work out other things to do, times to swim and box and see about the weights and the indoor track if it ever snowed. Hell, run in the snow too. He’d have to face it sooner or later. And he’d find more things to do, like attend weekly screenings—movies—and train the same rigid schedule as Steve and Wanda. 

He’d get a few more dinners like this. He went to find Steve, checked the phone but he assumed it was too much to ask that Steve use it twice in one day. He looked in all the expected places first, Steve’s room and the perpetually open door, the kitchen, the cafeteria. Outside on the landing pads, which made a nice place to sit and look at the trees or watch all kinds of sci-fi tech come and go. God, eighty years ago and he saw a car almost fly. He’d never believe it if you told him back then what they’d have now. But no Steve, so he wandered hallways and found more rooms—encountered Vision, another hero he’d fought against once and had yet to formally meet and gauge in person. He found laboratories, which made him more than a little nervous and he felt justified in saying it. Past them was storage, bunkers, technically he could take anything he wanted from them if it wasn’t otherwise claimed. His arm was probably in there somewhere. That was a good plan for tomorrow, trying to find it just in case.

And still no Steve. He actually checked the phone again, for nothing. And it was easily late enough for dinner now. He went down a hall of offices—what lucky bastards got offices?—and up and down several staircases just to get the lay of the whole building. He’d know where to check next time he went looking for Steve, now that he’d actually decided to commit the place to memory rather than wander it aimlessly each time. Next would be the woods. It was a smaller area than he was accustomed to canvassing, but that only meant learning details. And it meant a short-term project. 

Finally, he did find Steve. Good, because wandering freely wasn’t as fun as it sounded when he was expecting to do something else. Between energetic memories of nights that lasted for weeks at a time, of sore feet, of carrying Steve home, and the more somber evenings on couch cushions in his parents’ apartment, trading baseball cards and him acting extra dumb to make Steve laugh, he was getting his hopes up every minute he didn’t find Steve. This was that again. He was determined to make it so, a more meaningful conversation than the latest meal they’d shared together and a lot more fun than the late night talk they’d managed to have. He was done with deep talks for the day. He earned the right to pretend again.

But he found Steve in a conference room, of all places. A smaller one, less windows than the bigger and more public rooms on the campus. This was more like the principal’s office than a meeting space, so when he saw Steve sneak out of it he thought it was escaping some more dreaded schedule. Until Steve saw him too, and shut the door fast behind him, and waved Bucky over.

“You’re hard to find,” Bucky complained sarcastically. But he smiled anyway because Steve looked nervous. Like he’d been caught in the act, like he was guilty of something. But also like he was gathering the courage to say something real dumb, which was just about the summary of Steve’s life.

“I was setting up,” Steve explained. What the hell did that mean?

Bucky tried to look past him, but the glass was darkened in this room and he couldn’t see anything. He guessed from the layout of the rest of the building it backed up to a view of plain woods, no landing pads and no driveway and no street. And he assumed it was glass on that wall and this wall, and solid on the other two. That made it almost private. He narrowed his eyes. “Are we still getting dinner?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. But he was tense now. “I, uh–”

“Is it in there?” Bucky guessed, half-smirking. A dinner date after all. 

Steve looked back at the door, and nodded. He opened the door and stepped aside, following Bucky, for once not brave enough to be the first one in. “I thought it would be fun, but I understand if it’s too much.”

Conference table pushed to one side, pillows on the floor, a lantern in the middle. Steve’s fancy modern record player pushed against the wall. And he’d laid out a deck of cards. A couple blankets, still half folded, the wool kind that really reminded him of back then, both nights in apartments and nights in the vast woods of the war. Styrofoam containers Steve must’ve ordered in—did restaurants even deliver to the campus? He almost wished the campus didn’t smell so sterile and new, that it was a little more lived in to match this. But this was… 

“It’s not too much,” he said. It was all that came to mind. 

“I looked for couch cushions,” Steve added defensively, like there was any need. “This was as good as I could get. I wanted it to be a little like back then.”

“It is,” he said softly. “It really is.”

He knelt on the pillows. They were hotel quality, probably from storage. He didn’t care. When he looked at the record player he saw a thin stack of vinyls next to it, not quite as old school as they were. And Steve chose from them—songs he remembered playing over the radios in transport vans, or in the bunkers in between long haul missions through the snow. Dinner was burgers, classic diner food. He sat with legs crossed and watched the record spin, and Steve sat across from him. Over the actual dinner they didn’t say much, just a couple small memories of the steakhouses uptown they couldn’t afford and the hot dog stand by the beach they could, and cookouts was the word they’d used to make wartime rations around tiny campfires seem a little less dreary. He remembered alcohol didn’t taste the same after Steve rescued him—and when he said it aloud Steve got real quiet.

And then Steve told him about the night right after the train. Despondent, guilty, and only just learning the serum worked too fast for Steve to get drunk. He’d been alone except for… Except for Peggy Carter, and he caught on the name, and Bucky wished he’d never said it at all. So they were quiet a little more, letting the record play down until Steve replaced it with another one. 

“Did you love her?” Bucky asked eventually. It wasn’t so much hanging in the air as it was in his own mind. He had guesses about it, but they were so old he could barely separate his thoughts from actual memories. The compass and her photo, her intel briefings and combat training, the missions she’d led in between the more publicized Captain America campaigns. The way Steve squirmed when she walked in a room. How, when she was around, he had eyes for no one else.

“I don’t know,” Steve said. He avoided Bucky’s eyes. “It was a long time ago.”

“Always wondered,” Bucky explained, mumbling. He knew damn well the answer to this question, why bring it up at all? 

Steve gathered the cards in his hands and shuffled half-heartedly. “Me too. I wonder about a lot of things from back then.”

“I’m still untangling it,” Bucky tried to sympathize. This was a little more how things had been way back in the day, in Steve’s otherwise empty apartment. “I don’t think I remember it as well as you.”

“The thing is,” Steve dealt two hands and set the deck aside, “I remember it already tangled. I was pulled down a lot of different paths.”

They were set up for a few different games. Checking his hand and the number of cards, Bucky decided on rummy. Long turns and lots of thought, plenty of time to break up yet another difficult conversation. “I didn’t have any path.”

Steve drew a card. “I think, for a long time, I mixed up how I felt about her with how I felt about–”

His heart stopped. “About who?”

“It’s not important,” Steve said firmly. “I don’t wanna spoil the evening.”

Bucky drew a card. It wasn’t very fluid with just one hand. “It’s not gonna spoil anything.”

This turn Steve had a few quick plays. He laid cards out in their rows and suits, and held onto one card until he was absolutely sure about the play. He always dropped his hand a little when he played—back in the day Bucky used to sneak glances at his cards and try to adjust his strategy. Sometimes it was more helpful than others, in games where something could actually be done. But this wasn’t that kind of game, where knowing Steve’s hand could help but ultimately didn’t change a thing about how he’d play until the cards were out. It didn’t change the fact that he still wanted to know.

“How I felt about you,” Steve said.

Was it that easy all along? Forget no heartbeat; now it pounded and he hadn’t felt like this since… He couldn’t even remember a time. “Steve, I–”

“How I felt about losing you,” Steve clarified quickly. There it was. “I was confused.”

Was that a glimpse of the cards? Not the play he wanted; he should really stick to his own hand, the plays he could make based on what Steve played first and whatever got dealt to him after. He had to stop getting his hopes up like this. Now that it was okay, now that things weren’t really so complicated after all—people weren’t as distracting, the world was forced smaller for both of them—why did he keep missing chances? Nobody would care. Some of them might’ve even seen it coming. But even if Bucky were pulling the strings he wasn’t sure he could pull it all together. He could make every move in the game for both of them but there wasn’t a point in playing with someone else for that. He’d just wait for Steve. He always did. 

He drew another card. Still couldn’t play anything.

“I told you it would spoil the evening,” Steve said, his voice thin. 

“No,” he replied before thinking. “I thought you meant something different, is all.”

Steve played again. And this next turn Bucky had a few cards to lay out, finally, just before it was too many to manage. They went a few more turns silently, more drawing than playing, cards shuffled around and sometimes none of it worked out quite right and they’d reset without talking and rescind cards to their hands. 

But if Steve was mixing up Peggy and him, what threads did he have tangled? Was it losing both of them, separately but so soon after each other the hurt bled from one to the other? Or the pure and simple explanation, he loved Peggy but was interrupted by losing Bucky, two totally different threads entangled by circumstances. The old friend and the new flame? A little easier to get the wires crossed there. Eighty years between now and then, was it fading for even the great Steve Rogers? But the answer he wanted was simplest. Pulled down different paths, huh? It made the most sense for it to be the same path, with two different people.

“Do you remember the baseball game in the old lot?” Steve said suddenly, but gently. Breaking the ice all over again.

He didn’t give specifics but one particular game popped into his head anyway. “When you hit a home run?”

“That’s the one.” Steve smiled, eyes focused on his cards. “It was because you taught me to use leverage instead of power.”

“It was a one-in-a-million hit,” Bucky agreed. He watched Steve, who played just a few cards this round and then rested on his free hand. At ease. He still looked troubled but it was ebbing. Maybe they could forget the whole conversation and remember this instead. “I knew you could do it, just nobody’d taught you how.”

“You always let me be on your team,” Steve said. Now he was looking up, but when Bucky noticed he quickly studied his cards again. “And when I hit the home run you carried me on your shoulders, even though we lost that game.”

He remembered it vividly. Everything about it a picture-perfect summer day, all the other kids from the neighborhood and clear skies and bases made from burlap sacks and old hats. He’d argued with the kids in secret to let Steve play—he always had to, and they didn’t always let him. Steve couldn’t really throw or run, but Bucky could teach him that one thing. Steve struck out every inning and then, in what was supposed to be his last shot, he surprised everyone. It didn’t matter they didn’t win. Steve proved he could play. 

“Everyone needed to know what you could do,” Bucky said. 

“I just needed you,” Steve said. He didn’t add anything else.


	4. Procedures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone who has read this far! I'm so happy with all the kudos and I hope to read some of your comments and thoughts too!

He and Steve made it a point to talk at least once a day. A lot of it was quieter, reminiscing, trying to figure out what to do with themselves in their downtime. There were so many hard talks they avoided. They hadn’t even finished up with World War II, and there were decades more of ill-defined, icy, shattering memories that Bucky needed to talk about and couldn’t bring himself to say. At least the war was common ground; a lot of it they did together, two perspectives on the same events, losing each other in different ways. Again and again they said it, they were still friends and all they had to do was catch up. But they didn’t do much catching up. 

But they had training with Wanda every couple of days, early in the morning and always somewhere in the woods. It snowed on and off every so often, and out in the woods the snow stuck around. He wondered if Steve drew winter scenes but he was firmly committed to never sneaking looks at Steve’s drawings again. On his own time, he made a routine of running and, since it was Peter Parker’s winter break, watching assorted movies and shows with the kid. He and Sam met regularly, for guard duty or meals or a few odd hours here and there for workouts and sparring. A week gone by meant another movie viewing with the group, though this time they were joined by Nat. The things came for his room—it looked a little less dreary with better blankets, a bookshelf, a couple framed photos of New York in the forties. Still, he barely slept and took time each day to make his bed nice so no one would catch on. The room didn’t feel lived in. Even now it barely felt like his.

A week gone by also meant thinking about holidays. A couple scattered decorations had popped up, stockings and garlands, mainly around the common areas. He hadn’t thought about holidays in a while—aside from the few he’d been invited to in Wakanda, that he didn’t remember anymore—so he was thrown. He checked the campus schedule just in case the holidays meant something around here; sure enough, a party was scheduled for the twenty-third. 

Another all-Avengers party. He wasn’t big about the idea, a gathering so soon after the last one. He didn’t look fixed up, not polished enough to be seen again. Okay, it was time to do something about the hair and the beard. Time to look like he was trying at least a little. To be a Howling Commando again, instead of a washed out assassin.

He had a few days to get it all together. Easy. Look presentable, speak well, he could do it. He went for his room, to plan out how best to clean up, but was intercepted. Intercepted by none other than Tony Stark.

“Come with me,” Tony said to catch him, and if it’d been anyone else he would’ve ignored them. But this was a direct order and about the only person he had to obey. 

He thought about asking where they were going. He recognized the path to the labs—they had a few workshops, clean rooms, sometimes populated by people who weren’t quite Avengers but open to anyone there anyway. He wasn’t a scientist, so he didn’t have much use for this place. But if Tony wanted him down here, the only thing that made sense was his arm. 

“I told the kid to join us in ten minutes,” Tony explained. He typed numbers into the keypad of an especially sterile-looking room and instinctively Bucky caught the code. He didn’t need that info but it was second nature, especially around someone this important. “In the meantime, you should know I do this very reluctantly. I’m deciding to trust you.”

He nodded. The lab had an operating table and instrument trays. He saw the case for his arm and wondered if it’d really been here all along and he just never thought to investigate inside the labs. 

“Legally you’re not allowed to have this,” Tony said, undoing the clasps on the case. “No enhancements, no weapons. We’re getting around that by saying this is a medically necessary device. And as long as you don’t leave, there shouldn’t be a problem anyway.”

“I’m not leaving,” he agreed. “You’re giving me the vibranium arm?”

“Again, reluctantly.” Tony gestured to the operating table without looking away from the case, tapping the sides of the case without touching the arm within. “But you’ve been quiet so far, and I’m trying to get Steve off my back. Consider this a Christmas present.”

He chuckled softly. Like everything else he heard about Steve it wasn’t hard to imagine. 

And he sat on the operating table, waiting quietly, pretending this was any different from every Winter Soldier procedure. Yeah, he was sitting voluntarily and the lights were a little softer, but there were still restraints on the arms of the table and needles on the trays. Still the capacity to drop him at a moment’s notice, and to tear out everything about him that mattered. All he could tell himself was this was different. They couldn’t abuse power if they refused to use it in the first place. 

The lab door opened again, and Peter walked in just a second too fast. “Thanks for inviting me. What are we doing?”

“You up for a game of Operation?” Tony said to him. 

Ah, great. He was a game board. 

It wasn’t that complicated a procedure, all things considered. He barely remembered the first arm—and the cold bunker, the electricity ran through wires bolted on the walls, kept under by something a little less powerful than anesthesia—and after the so-called civil war when he’d had the remnants of that arm removed he had no memories in a good way. He thought on and off the whole time how Tony had been the one to tear off the Winter Soldier arm; if he wanted to finish the job now was the time. He laid back when they told him to, watched the middle of a light so he didn’t think too hard about surgeries, accepted when they tied down his human arm just in case. He spent more than a few minutes staring up, overhearing conversations about vibranium and nanite technology and that was just what sounded familiar. He heard the kid asking questions, Tony trying to answer them, both of them pausing and researching and asking the more specific questions to some disembodied computer voice. He looked to his human arm when someone finally came over to him—not bothering to see who.

The way this arm was designed allowed it to come off and on. It was installing a spare part, not a limb; Shuri took it off him in a clean room but he didn’t need any shots, any pills, just to sit quiet and look the other way. As soon as Tony and Peter finished up studying the thing—a fair price to pay for getting it back, he tried to think—they could snap it into place. Like a toy, like magnets, he wasn’t sure exactly how it worked. Part of the vibranium stayed behind in the remnants of his shoulder, forming the bones that were hollowed out and sawed off, continuous with the nerves. He felt like a toy soldier waiting for it. It wasn’t hard. It didn’t have to be hard. Yeah, if he were a scientist he’d probably want the chance to investigate Wakandan engineering too, but this wasn’t tricky. He didn’t have to be there, strapped down, waiting for one tiny procedure.

He tugged the restraint cuff experimentally. Quietly. If he had to he could probably break it, even if the human arm wasn’t quite so strong. His hand was sweaty. Maybe they designed these labs with superhumans in mind and it wouldn’t be so easy to get out. He glanced over at an instrument tray, tried to guess based on the empty syringes next to full ones what this lab was really meant for. Shit, was it hot? He felt hot. He turned back to the light, face up. Opened his eyes wide to it.

“You okay?” he heard Peter ask, but distractedly. 

“Yep.” He said it through his teeth but the genius medical team here wouldn’t know. He tugged at the restraint again. No, too strong to break. But his legs were free and maybe, in an emergency, he could get enough leverage with them to pry off the cuff.

How long had it been? He felt something on his head, wrapping around his temples and forehead, needles into his skull. Instinctively he froze, tried to reach up with his unbound arm. No arm there yet. This wasn’t part of the procedure. Why would they need to do something to his mind? They didn’t. They shouldn’t. This was, this was…

No. Focus. The light right above him, still burning, still glowing gently. This was the Avengers headquarters, and nobody here wanted him to be the Winter Soldier. But then what did they have around his head? Why did it hurt? The jagged bolts shot down his arm, his missing one, did it hurt this bad when he got it? Fuck, it hurt. Why did it hurt? He pulled genuinely at the restraint and heard its buckle rattle against the table. Still too strong for him but he needed free. They were gonna wipe him again. No, no, he was safe. The wars were over. Steve got him here and he wasn’t about to let him be used as a mindless killer again. He wasn’t gonna go back, he didn’t do that anymore. Not gonna lose Steve, not one more goddamn time. 

No. No. Let me stay, let me remember, let me  _ be with him _ . 

“Barnes?” he heard sharply, and his eyes focused on Tony’s face in front of the light. Peter on the other side. His chest was rising and falling and not moving any air, his skin slick with sweat, but the pain in his arm replaced with twinges of sensation from the newly attached robotic arm. Nothing around his head, nothing in his skin. 

“Thought we lost you,” Tony said a bit dryly. Maybe a joke. It didn’t feel funny.

“Does it hurt?” Peter asked, his attention clearly focused on the arm.

He flexed the vibranium fingers. Perfectly intuitive. He reached sharply for the restraint cuff. He shook his head to answer the kid but couldn’t speak a word if he tried.

When he got the buckle undone and yanked his arm free the two onlookers stepped back. Tony advised him to wait, sit for a second to give his body time to adjust. Vibranium was a miracle cure but there would still be a minute of shock and adjustment. He didn’t listen. He was getting the hell outta there. He jumped off the table, pushed his way through the door before it was open wide enough for him. Down the hallway and he ran both hands through his hair, pulling it out of his eyes, trying to get his vision to focus. It kept fading in and out, blurring, lights too bright and then suddenly not enough. He was dizzy. They didn’t actually do anything to him, right?

His arm was throbbing now. An adjustment period just to ache, but not down into the robotic part. Just the bones pieced together with vibranium, radiating up his organic shoulder blade and clavicle, the ligaments holding the whole apparatus on. He was off-balance too, unaccustomed to the weight of the arm anymore. It hurt. It  _ hurt _ . Why did he want it back so bad?

He walked instinctively for his own room. The direct route would take him through common spaces but speed mattered here, not subtlety. If he could just get a fucking grip, breathe normal, stand still for a second, he’d be okay. But he couldn’t do that when all the spaces were too open and just anyone could see him. He wasn’t safe. There wasn’t a single reason to think it but he knew, instinctively, he wasn’t safe.

He saw Sam just before he reached the hallway to their wing. Sam stood in the way like he wanted Bucky to stop, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t register what Sam even said, but knew he said something. When he pushed past he was aware of Sam following, vague instructions to stop, sit down, breathe. Not yet, not until it was safe. He passed Sam’s door and Steve’s, and fumbled with his own and slammed it shut behind him.

He leaned against it for a second, catching his breath in a way he hadn’t in decades. He was shaking. Now that he stood in one place he could feel it, fingers and arms, knees, teeth chattering, feverish. Knockoff super soldier serum and this was all he got? No powers and completely drained after one noninvasive procedure. He stumbled away from the door and towards the bathroom, glad that at least with everything else communal this was private. He closed that door too, safer behind two walls. He splashed water from the sink onto his face in a haphazard attempt to cool off and wash off. Without thinking, he turned on the shower and stepped under the spray, clothes and shoes and all, eyes facing the shower head. 

Fuck it all. He sat shakily, head between his knees at first. But the longer he sat under lukewarm water the more he drew into himself, hiding his eyes, letting his unfocused vision settle into black.

It wasn’t that long. He told himself as much anyway, when the water felt cold and he was drenched to the bone. He didn’t want to think about it. When he shut the taps off he waited an extra minute, listening, making sure nobody followed him this far. He peeled off the drenched clothes and ruined shoes, and tried to dry off and warm back up. Too hot, too cold, too many extremes. He changed into dry clothes similar enough to what he was wearing, hopefully that would hide everything. But he didn’t want to see anybody either, even if his heart rate was back down. 

Was that panic? In the first war he’d lived just a little more on edge than normal, a little quicker to rise and investigate sounds and aim weapons before asking questions. And it ramped up from there, even as the Winter Soldier. Always alert, barely sleeping, listening and watching and no time to ever sit and rest. When Steve found him and he started to remember—when the pieces were just out of reach but it was too familiar for him to ignore—he panicked. It was a direct challenge to the programming, to everything he thought he knew. It put him in more danger, earned him more pain, and when he got away he had no trust left in him.

He had nothing to panic about anymore. What was this?

He didn’t know what to do with himself. But he didn’t want to leave, that was certain, so he wrote. The same notebook from early morning training, since it meant focus and he could focus wholeheartedly on it. He didn’t know what to write about but he managed words anyway. When he couldn't think of anything else and all that stuck in his mind was panic, he closed the notebook and checked the phone. The goddamn phone he never took anywhere, now lit up with a campus-wide alert warning everyone he might’ve lost it.

So that was it. All it took for him to be seen as a rogue adversary. And apparently that was all it took for him to lose every last scrap of meager trust he’d managed to earn, to crush the reputation Steve curated for him. He wasn’t dangerous. He wasn’t close to the most dangerous of the compound’s inhabitants. Was this the end of the line after all? Was he still panicked?

That wasn’t the word. Something about panic was immediate, reactionary. This was… tired. Reverting back into old patterns, falling into his own fear. He felt like he’d just broken with Hydra all over again, sick of being used and terrified of getting a single mission more, conflicted about who he was and who he knew. Not a scrap of trust left anywhere. Retreating.

The exact alert on the phone said, “Possible Winter Soldier situation.” He figured, without attaching his own stigma to it, the message wasn’t bad. A situation wasn’t good, sure. But it wasn’t a lockdown. No grand tactics, strike teams, nobody even kicking down his doors. He checked the phone again and saw a response, an all-clear from Sam. He’d stormed right by Sam and didn’t listen to him in the slightest but Sam protected him anyway. 

That was it on the phone, thankfully. He was glad to set it aside and ignore the fact that he lived in one small room of a glorified base. He decided to go run, like he always did. Run and forget, run and try not to cement a single memory of the day. With two hands he could tie back some of his hair—and he thought about cutting it off entirely, two hands giving him dexterity enough to do it. He still flexed the robotic fingers absentmindedly, convincing himself he could feel metal plates grating against each other, still adjusting to having it back. He wasn’t sure what felt normal anymore, arm or no arm.

The big hurdle about running would be avoiding any attention. He didn’t want to explain himself—he couldn’t explain himself—and it didn’t feel right seeing anyone without stopping to clear up the confusion. It would be smarter to stay put until he was ready to talk, but he wasn’t a strategist. He opened his door quietly, and listened down the hall. No Sam, that he could hear. No voices of any kind, no footsteps. Steve’s door shut tight, though.

He tried to walk quickly out of the hall but that stopped him. It felt like bait. If Steve was in trouble he couldn’t ignore it; he would know the closed door meant something was wrong. Was this a test? They’d stop him either way, he supposed, either here by a friendly face or elsewhere by an unfriendly one. 

He reached for the door to knock, and didn’t. Was he in any shape to be helpful? Maybe he just wanted to be around Steve—to not be alone, really, but he knew Steve. He didn’t have to say anything, didn’t have to explain himself to Steve, just be around. 

So he did knock. And then he looked down, listening, watching for shadows even though he couldn’t see anything. He heard something being set down hastily, a chair being pushed back, pens clattering. Footsteps to the door, and then Steve opened it.

“Bucky,” he said immediately, surprised. His forehead was creased—he looked tired, like the whole day had gone wrong, like he was a kid again trying his hardest not to succumb to another cold. “I was just–” he glanced back towards his desk, caught himself on the words. So he said instead, “I heard what happened.”

Bucky just stared at him. He didn’t have anything to say before, and now that he was facing him… All the hard talks in the world couldn’t prepare him for this. 

“Sam told me,” Steve continued, one hand still holding the door, “that you were having a hard time with something.”

“That’s what he said?” Bucky said dryly. He wasn’t sure why. He was wound tight, didn’t wanna talk about it, couldn’t figure out why himself. Defensive, really. He saw Steve’s concern—his sympathy—and he would rather play it off like nothing. Steve wasn’t supposed to worry about him. He wasn’t supposed to need protecting.

“We already got things smoothed over with Tony.” He sounded hopeful, offering this as comfort. “He didn’t think you were dangerous, but he didn’t know what happened.”

“I’m not dangerous,” Bucky muttered, not really believing it. It was embarrassing. One moment of weakness and it had to be a notification to everyone in the building. But what was he supposed to say?

“You can come in,” Steve offered. He stepped back, still clinging to the door, more worried now. Even if that face cut at his heart, he was glad Steve was still easy to read. 

He took the opportunity to step in. Steve shut the door again, just like another hard talk. Bucky couldn’t face him anymore, though. He’d have to admit what was happening and explain it in clear words. He was the Winter fucking Soldier, he shouldn’t be sent spiraling by something less invasive than every procedure ever forced upon him before. 

“I don’t want to talk,” he said quietly, strained. He stared at the corner of Steve’s bed because it was an obvious point, but peripherally he still saw the record player, the desk, scattered papers and pens on the desktop clearly fresh and probably what Steve had been doing before. 

“You don’t have to.” 

He flinched when Steve touched his shoulder. It was reactionary and he wished he didn’t. Between everything he was starting to feel hollow, wrung all the way out, pulled in so many directions it was opening up space inside him. 

Steve pulled his hand back. That much Bucky saw from the corner of his eye. “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” Bucky answered. It wasn’t a matter of what Steve could do, but what he could actually ask of him.

“I was writing to you,” Steve said softly, walking over to the desk while Bucky stayed in the same spot. “I was gonna leave it under your door. When I first started talking to Sam, we talked a lot about moments like this. It’s common.”

“I know about shell shock.”

“I know.” Steve chose one sheet of paper, and handed it to him. When Bucky took it he glanced up at Steve’s face, and it broke his heart. 

But the paper was a letter, haphazard, a first draft. He read it rather than look at Steve anymore.

_ Bucky, _

_ I go back to the worst moments of the war—of all the wars—more times than I can count. Little things can set it off, and sometimes it’s nothing. Sometimes I get into my own head, and get stuck there. I don’t cope as well as I should. I think appearances are deceiving for that; I’m not much for people and it’s worse when I’m back there, so I don’t tend to show it.  _

_ I know you need time. You know better than me what you have to do to get through it. I can’t pretend to imagine where you go when it happens. I’m always here if you need me.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Steve _

And the handwriting was painfully familiar, nostalgic. Steve’s sharp, looping script, hasty and blotted in places from his hand sweeping aside ink. He glanced up at Steve again and Steve wasn’t looking at him either. This was more of a confession than Steve had shared in a long time.

“It comes and goes,” Steve explained with difficulty, looking anywhere but Bucky. “It’s been better lately. You coming here made it seem like things were finally getting back to normal.”

“It’s been worse for me,” Bucky admitted, holding onto the note like a lifeline. “It’s the adjustment. I’ll be okay.”

Steve nodded. “Look, Buck, I–”

Bucky gave him proper attention, met his eyes, but Steve froze under it. What now? This could be bad news, this could be more hard talks, nothing or everything. He hated this, how hard this was anymore. They could play cards again in some small conference room, on hotel pillows by lantern light. They could avoid all the worst conversations and just remember, reminisce, and they wouldn’t have to face anyone else while they did it. 

“I say I’m here, but I don’t help you when you need it,” Steve said. Confessed, really, but this wasn’t any crime and Bucky hadn’t considered it. “I’m sorry I’m still not there for you.”

“You’re there,” Bucky tried to reassure him. 

“I can do better,” Steve promised. “If there are nights you can’t sleep, you can come in here. So neither of us are alone.”

Neither of us.

“Do you sleep well?” Bucky had to ask.

Steve smiled sadly. “Not really.”

“Then the offer goes for you, too.”

Like old times, like couch cushions on his parents’ floor. Like Steve’s apartment, midnight sneaking in through a window so Sarah Rogers wouldn’t catch him and he could try to coerce Steve into hitting the town with him under the cover of darkness. Sometimes they’d stay in anyway, and he’d sleep on Steve’s floor with one blanket and a bookbag for a pillow. He used to grab both Steve’s hands and try to talk him into things—or out of things, depending on the night. Let’s dance, let’s hit the beach, let’s throw rocks at cars, let’s play baseball. He wanted so badly to remember Steve reaching for his hands too. Steve grabbing his sleeve if one of his bullies walked by. Arms around shoulders, grand schemes, familiar and comfortable. Uninterrupted by flashbacks, gut-wrenching memories, pounding hearts.

He hated being so close to crying. Especially in front of Steve, who was holding himself together by the same meager threads. Honestly, he didn’t feel much better here. If there was supposed to be some relief in talking it out he wasn’t getting it. At least, though, he was feeling differently about it. Less embarrassed, but more guilty. More conflicted, more tired, less panicked. 

He didn’t know what else to do with himself. So he sat on the edge of Steve’s bed, sighed, and reached a hand out to invite Steve next to him.

“It shouldn’t be easier to be a soldier than a person,” he said when Steve did sit. 

“We’ll get by,” Steve replied softly. 

They sat quietly. He didn’t have space left in his brain to think, to try and conjure up some random memory to ease the conversation. He didn’t like leaving things this way, with Steve feeling like he had to take responsibility for messes that weren’t his. But this had been building for a while, he thought. Him trying to hold it all together and Steve trying to keep up appearances, not able to talk about it, letting it rise like flooding waters. He wished the last straw hadn’t been in front of Tony, or the kid. But it would’ve happened eventually. 

He was glad for one thing, though: Steve was around. 

“I’ve been meaning to offer,” Steve said suddenly. “I think I can cut your hair, if you want.”

“Who taught you to cut hair?” Bucky laughed, pulled so sharply out of his mind he couldn’t help but be humored. 

“Your sisters,” Steve answered, smiling back. He looked relieved too. 

“My sisters?” Even though he’d accepted everything else was different, he still thought about them like he’d moved away and that was it. They’d be home if he went back, young and alive and chastising him for staying away so long. He wasn’t ready to remember them any other way. But, all things aside, he was pleasantly surprised to imagine the three girls and Steve, without an ounce of expertise between them. “When did you find time?”

“You weren’t always around,” Steve defended. Now he was grinning, so this was a friendlier memory than most. “I didn’t exactly have a choice. They outnumbered me.”

He thought of Steve, waiting for Bucky and being bombarded by the girls. And he was skeptical, but he wanted to clean up and the opportunity had presented itself. Now was as good a time as any. “Okay. Make me look good.”

Steve put on a record and they listened to it through the open door to Steve’s bathroom. The room door still shut, closing them into the space. Like Steve’s old apartment, empty except them, the radio up and the living room a makeshift campsite and the two of them, long after they should’ve outgrown it, laying side by side under blankets and reading books with flashlights. Now, though, he sat in Steve’s desk chair in front of the mirror, playing barber shop. His mind was still overstimulated, but backing away from the full blown crisis. Now he felt lighter, with the persistent jolts of fear eased away every time they struck between familiar music and Steve’s totally unpracticed hands running through his hair.

The first time didn’t stir anything. He could almost believe it was professional, Steve trying to decide how best to go about this. Bucky lived long enough with sisters to know to comb his own goddamn hair, especially with it this long. It was tangled now, though, and still wet, so Steve made another pass through it. And this time Bucky had to stare hard at the countertop, trying to ignore whatever about Steve touching him so gently made his heart skip a beat.

Steve ended up tying up his hair and cutting right through it with a straight razor. It figured he still had something old like that. But that was just the start—and, Bucky assumed, all that his sisters actually taught Steve about cutting hair. Why Steve could maneuver one of those electric razors so well he may never figure out, but he paid much more attention to Steve’s fingers in his hair, Steve tilting his chin gently. They didn’t really talk and he was glad for that too; between music and close contact and imagining his face looking like him again he was afraid anything he said would be too much. He didn’t like being taken care of, especially not by Steve, but this kind of attention was… nice. 

It could’ve felt like a procedure. It could’ve been attention in all the wrong ways, sharp tools so close to his face, the threat of surgery, no control. None of it felt dangerous, even when Steve took back up the razor and cleaned up his face in addition to his hair. That was something he really wouldn’t trust from anyone else. He tried to tell himself it was just circumstances—he already overreacted once today and didn’t have the energy to do it again, he wasn’t in a lab, he wasn’t around the one person on the campus who’d ever tried to kill him. What was he supposed to think? That the reason this wasn’t needlessly scary was because of Steve?

But that was exactly why. He knew it and didn’t want to. 

When Steve stood back and crossed his arms Bucky took a real look at himself. Like looking at old portraits, museum displays. It couldn’t be a mirror. Cleaned up for official reports and publicity shots, Sergeant Barnes the right hand of Captain America. He looked like him again, like the picture in his head. And he saw Steve’s face in the corner of the mirror, Steve’s earnest and hopeful smile. That made him smile, too. 

“I didn’t think you could pull it off,” Bucky admitted, leaning a little closer to the mirror. Closing Steve out of his peripheral vision. “I actually do look good.”

“You always do,” Steve said. He shut his mouth fast afterward, though.

“Like me better with long hair?” Bucky teased instinctively. That was how it always went, something a little too sweet and a joke to smooth things over. “I think I liked you better with a beard, too.”

“Well,” Steve said defensively, and Bucky leaned back to see Steve’s grin in the mirror, “I wish you would’ve coordinated with me  _ before _ .”

But they were framed in the mirror, all smiles again, a photograph restored in full color. It was like the old days right down to haircuts—the SSR’s looser regulations about personal appearance, the bright eyes despite the circumstances, the camaraderie, the uniforms with wings sewn on to match Steve’s helmet. The museums didn’t capture just how many days were like this, how many weeks and months went by where, no matter what had happened in a day, no matter how much it haunted his mind, they’d chase it off for a little with soft words. Old photographs and dioramas and displays didn’t get the heart of it, the way everything else in the world fell to the wayside so long as Steve was there. 


	5. You Lead, I'll Follow

He didn’t want to leave. 

Steve didn’t make him, and he stuck around to help sweep up and rearrange Steve’s room to the slim level of cleanliness it had been. He sat at the desk after and watched Steve continue tidying, absentmindedly shuffling books from shelf to shelf, rearranging vinyl records and blank canvases and first aid kits. The music was still playing, propping open the bathroom door so it echoed slightly. 

He felt like he didn’t belong. Not wholly out of place, but intruding anyway. He felt like he did a lot right at the end of the old times—when Steve was doing more important things and he was tagging along, waiting for his orders, realizing he didn’t have any reason to be in the same war rooms as superheroes and scientists. But every time he thought he might as well leave now, since he wasn’t doing anything and Steve wasn’t doing anything, he got stuck on the thought of the door. If he opened it, he’d be back in the world of consequences. He’d be leaving behind the quiet memories, the privacy of his own mind. He didn’t belong to himself out there. At least, in here, he belonged to Steve.

He didn’t like being taken care of because he was supposed to do it. Because eighty, ninety years ago it was his responsibility. He remembered that almost as clearly as anything else. He would walk Steve to and from school, drag him out of fights, chase off his bullies, stop by his apartment when he was sick. Sarah Rogers used to catch him at the door, warning him Steve had come down with something dangerous, and he’d give her some polite message and sneak in through Steve’s window anyway. Despite it Steve always lived. He was too scrappy for his own good. And both of them were stubborn as hell, and broke all the rules. Even when the worst happened Bucky was there.

Paper sack in one hand, his personal spare key in the other, he’d let himself into Steve’s apartment. He’d stopped by that morning on his way to work—he always did that first year, when it’d only been a few months since Sarah died and he was afraid of Steve being alone so many hours in the day. He found Steve in no mood to talk, exhausted, deathly sick, telling Bucky to go away and leave him be and Bucky abided, at the time. But he had come back after his shift, after begging for an early paycheck, and in those days his job was part time manual labor so the boss wasn’t keen to pay him off the schedule. But he’d managed it anyway, and he’d taken those precious few dollars to buy dinner and new books before he went back to Steve’s.

He’d unloaded the bag like he owned the place, laying out ingredients on the small countertops, handing Steve the books when the little punk tried to complain. Even though Steve read voraciously Bucky couldn’t nail down his preference, so he’d come back with  _ Gone with the Wind _ fresh off the presses, and a biography on a scientist by the name of Marie Curie, and for good measure a children’s book about a bull who didn’t like bullies. He’d cooked—he tried to cook, anyway, something Steve always exaggerated after as a big disaster—and they sat on the living room floor with candy bars, bowls of chicken soup Bucky hadn’t ruined, the radio on softly to fill the space. Bucky wrapped a blanket around them both because they were alone. Because Steve was ice cold, and the apartment was drafty at the best of times, and he was so sick. Steve fell asleep on him that night, fitfully from fever dreams, Bucky barely slept at all making sure throughout the night Steve was still breathing. And the next morning, with Steve through the worst of it, he’d gone to work and back to his own home like nothing ever happened. 

Maybe when he left here today, this would get filed away alongside moments like that. 

He sighed absentmindedly and Steve—midway through reordering books piled next to a shelf—glanced up at him. There was something comfortable about silence this time, the familiar quiet rather than the tense one. Steve’s face was soft now, not the pitying, empathetic, golden boy kind of look but the friendly one. Actually, Steve looked relieved. 

“Your eyes are different,” Steve said aloud, like it was a casual observation rather than a pretty fucking profound one. Like Bucky had any say in the change.

But he noticed after all. Bucky dropped his gaze so it wasn’t quite so obvious. “They are.”

“Just that you almost look the same as back then,” Steve explained quickly. “Before the war, I mean. Except for them.”

Before the war. That meant Steve had noticed the difference right away. 

The book in his hands was thin and bright red. When Bucky focused he could see the black lines, the white flowers, the outline of a bull. And it wasn’t possible, he figured, for it to be the very same book. It was old, though. Well worn and frequently read. All of Steve’s books had cracked spines, dog-eared pages, and fingerprints on every cover. But the one stuck in his hands, even though the shelf was half-full. He held onto it and looked at Bucky. He had to remember.

“You want to get dinner again?” Steve offered, still flustered, still covering for himself. “We don’t have to. It’s been a long day.”

“Sure,” he said immediately. Whatever it took to stay. “I don’t wanna leave.” 

I don’t wanna leave, I don’t wanna be alone. They were the same thing. He figured Steve would understand. 

And he did. Steve snuck out to the kitchen and left Bucky in the room, so he laid back on Steve’s bed with his feet still on the ground. His head and chest were empty, even the last twinges of comfort dripping away. Like laying back poured it all out of him, bled him dry. Steve saw him the same, Steve still thought of him like the best version of himself. He’d been debilitated by his own fear, and lost control in front of the two people on the whole campus who could determine whether or not he was welcome. He’d ruined a perfectly good pair of shoes wearing them under the spray from his shower. Steve fixed him up. He was allowed to stay. And, importantly, if he couldn’t sleep he could always stay longer.

It all totalled up to nothing. Nothing but a growing fatigue, a pressure on his spine to stay down, a void everywhere else. He was actually tired. Not just tired but still, peaceful enough that he closed his eyes. And he sunk a little deeper, the black behind his eyes becoming the outlines of a bull and white flowers. 

Then the black turned to gray. Turned from warm to sharp ice, tempest winds, frost over his eyes. Flecks of red, then rivulets, then a smear. A thick brushstroke of it, and it arced into part of a shield. His heart was in his throat and he didn’t know why, some kind of anticipation of the worst. Like betting everything on a ballgame and it falls to pieces in the last inning. Like knowing you’ve been stood up but waiting a few more minutes. Like Steve’s hand outstretched, too late when the railing crumbled and dropped him over the edge. 

But that’s not what he saw. Instead it was the shield, pushed aside, leaned on the inside of the door of Steve’s old apartment. He went room to room, going from worried to scared, trying to let himself down easy before it hit. No sign of occupancy, not even life, and the last room was Steve’s. He pushed the door open and felt it pull his lungs right out of his body. He stepped in. He started with neatly stacked books—Steve’s room never looked this neat in those days—and worked his way to shined shoes, hospital corners, small but standard issue uniform folded on the bed. The corkboard full of Steve’s most impressive drawings, the pages yellowed after all this time. He thought he was sinking again. 

And then there were hands on his shoulders, from the still-open door. Slipping all the way around, clasping at his chest. He stepped slowly around to see Steve, superhero Steve, in the army uniform with his tie undone. Steve with his eyes that had always been sky blue, his dreamer’s heart that never should’ve gone to war. Steve’s hands hooked around the back of his neck. He cupped Steve’s jaw with his own human hands, marveling at the difference between now and the only time he’d ever gotten this far before. He wasn’t wasting another opportunity. He was surrounded by warmth, Steve’s chest against his and arms around his neck. He went for the kiss and closed his eyes.

When he next opened them it was to the campus ceiling. He was still warm, though, and when he tried to sit up he noticed a blanket pulled across his chest. It was soft; he felt it first with his human hand but tested the vibranium fingers too, unexpectedly relieved that they could detect texture this finely. He must’ve pulled his feet up when he noticed they weren’t still on the ground. And then he noticed he wasn’t wearing shoes anymore—he’d come in here with them, of course. He only meant to stop by on his way to run, but he’d somehow taken off his shoes and… slept? He sat up entirely and checked the desk, seeing Steve engrossed in some sketch.

“What time is it?” he asked, and his voice was groggier than he’d thought. It was a dumb question if he wasn’t sure when he’d even fallen asleep in the first place. 

“Almost nine,” Steve said without looking up. “I didn’t wanna wake you.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his head, surprised for just a moment how short the hair was. “You should’ve. I didn’t mean to skip dinner.”

“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever stood me up,” Steve joked softly. He glanced up for a moment, almost smirking.

“Does it count if I was here the whole time?”

“I think so,” Steve granted him. “Only because you looked so comfortable.”

Bucky spread part of the blanket between his hands. “I get the feeling I had help with that.” 

Steve chuckled to himself. He just kept on drawing, though, twisting his pencil a few times in his hand to change the weight of his lines. There’d been a time Bucky could watch Steve draw for hours, when Steve had assignments or studies and sat on the riverbank looking for models, when he’d scribble down where he was, pieces of maps or buildings, treelines. Sometimes he’d even lay on Steve’s bed, while Steve paid him no attention. The way Steve talked about art and the way he looked at it, the way he focused so intently on one thing no matter how frustrating. It was good he’d come back around to art after all this time. Bucky wondered if he could really watch again for the same kind of time.

“I did try to wake you up,” Steve said eventually. He set the pencil aside and opened a drawer in the desk, digging around through what sounded like tin and marbles but was probably just more pencils. “But not very hard. I figured you needed the rest.”

Bucky pushed back the blanket. Yeah, he’d needed it. But he was just starting to lose the lingering images of his dream, and the more he tried to imagine it the further it slipped away. Just the cold melting in the presence of the warmth, dread interrupted by relief. A kinder, gentler end to every war. He remembered just barely the blue of Steve’s eyes—hard to decipher if it was a dream or just instinctive memory, or even just looking at them now. 

When he remembered the end of the dream it stuck in his mind. He looked sharply away from Steve, staring at the opposite wall, hoping it wasn’t obvious. Really? It’s not like it was the first time, but he’d forgiven himself before. During the war it made sense; close quarters and dire situations conflated every small feeling. He was far from the first soldier to have his mind wander to the picturesque Captain America. And they’d been friends so long, he knew Steve in ways nobody else did. It was only right he felt a little more intimate with Steve. He couldn’t control the dreams, anyway, and they didn’t change how he went about his missions. Maybe he dreamed about Steve during the Winter Soldier years, but he couldn’t be certain. Even that had an explanation, since all his own thoughts had been scrambled during seven decades of mind control, constant brainwashing, memory wipes. So what excuse did he have now? 

“Whatcha drawing?” he asked to interrupt himself. In order to hear the answer he had to look back to Steve, but that also meant letting the end of the dream fade away. Thank god for that.

“Not much,” Steve said, which was his typical answer when he didn’t want to share. “I’ve been trying animals lately.”

“What animals?” He shifted closer to the edge of the bed. If he wanted he could see Steve’s page from here. “You know, in Wakanda, they called me  _ ingcuka emhlophe _ .”

Steve stopped drawing and turned his whole attention to Bucky, confused.

“White Wolf,” Bucky translated. Steve may have learned languages from the war but Bucky easily knew more nowadays. He’d spoken Wakandan Xhosa almost exclusively for months, which of course qualified him as the compound’s designated Spanish tutor and nothing else.

Steve didn’t buy it. “Because you’re such a loner?”   
  


“What can I say?” He crossed his arms smugly. “Probably my rugged charm.”

Steve snorted. “Right. Bucky from Brooklyn is a regular cowboy.”

“I may surprise you,” he said, trying to be mysterious but feeling his face melt into a grin despite his better efforts. “Consider yourself lucky the White Wolf owes you a date.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Steve retrieved a stack of pencils from the desk and turned the page in his sketchbook. On the fresh page Bucky did look, seeing a dog-shaped outline emerge from beneath Steve’s rapid pencil. “But you better warn him I don’t know how to dance.”

Blanket or no, he still felt warm. The music wasn’t playing anymore, he realized, but he could think of something slow anyway. It was still hitting him the words that fell from his own dumbass mouth— _ a date _ , of all things—and Steve played along.

He had come close once. In waking memory, at least. It was his last night before boot camp and he hadn’t told Steve, so the last few weeks wouldn’t weigh so heavy. But he told him that night, while they were walking along the riverside and avoiding going home, and Steve was crestfallen. Bucky always chalked it up to guilt; Steve wanted to enlist more than anyone Bucky had ever known, so this was one more reminder he couldn’t. Steve had almost been mad, even. But it was Bucky’s last night and whatever he thought Steve wasn’t letting that be the note to leave things on. Bucky told him it wasn’t the end of the world, it wasn’t even shipping out yet, just a few weeks away. Steve said he’d write—and he never did—and Bucky said there were more important things than fighting. 

Steve hugged him a long time that night, making him promise to hurry up with training but hold off on fighting until Steve could follow. It was the worst scenario his mind could imagine, though, little Steve actually enlisting and being sent off to god-knows-what. Steve like his own goddamn velveteen rabbit, the last thing in the world he wanted to hurt but something that would end up on the pyre anyway when Bucky left the next morning. He had second thoughts when Steve hugged him. When they broke apart he put his hands on Steve’s shoulders, looked him in the eye longer than he ever had. Words failed him. 

He had known since then what he felt about Steve. It was cemented, even though he’d let Steve go with an uninspiring “see you soon.” The rest was history. When he came back Steve was the same as always, the same rebellious and stupidly courageous, but shy and quiet too. The night wore on and Steve was more and more withdrawn. Bucky figured his window had closed. That was it.

Now he watched Steve draw. It was pretty clear Steve knew he was looking; he angled the book so Bucky could see better, and cycled between softer and softer pencils while glancing subtly up at Bucky. At first he was drawing a wolf, but the page was bigger than one animal. Below it he started on some nondescript head shapes, and Bucky started to drift off again by the time he realized it was his face Steve was drawing.

It must have been a few solid, consecutive hours before he woke up again. Dreamless, thankfully, but he still jolted awake forgetting where he was and what he was doing. He sat up and the blanket fell off his chest again, and the room was comfortably dark. He checked the desk first but Steve wasn’t there, and there was a split second of realization before he looked to his other side. To Steve, fast asleep, his back to Bucky. Both of them were under the same blanket.

He layed back down. He slept fitfully from then, never quite comfortable and his mind buzzing even though he couldn’t pinpoint a specific thought. He watched the shadows shift on the wall, grow from black to gray, and he listened to Steve breathing quietly. He turned his back to Steve but was still aware every time the other man adjusted, turned over, pulled the blanket up. That was par for the course; Steve didn’t like to be cold and Bucky didn’t mind it so much. Actually, he did. He’d gotten too familiar with cold in the last few decades, but he didn’t mind it in this context. This was like the war, giving Steve his blanket because they were bunked down close enough to share.  _ Everything was like the war _ , he sighed to himself. For it being decades later he sure couldn’t let that go.

Sometimes he thought Steve might be awake too. It wasn’t like he checked, but it was the way Steve’s breathing changed. From slow and peaceful to deliberate. It felt like he would stiffen, imitating the perfect stillness rather than actually being totally at rest. Maybe that was it, they were both back to back unable to fall back asleep, pretending like they were so the other could get a little rest. He thought about leaving, too, and letting Steve have his room back. There was a time he wouldn’t even consider what Steve wanted, he’d just waltz right into Steve’s room and spend the night because it felt right. But the only thing that felt more intrusive than staying was leaving, waking Steve up for nothing, interrupting even forced quiet. And even if he wasn’t sleeping anymore he hadn’t felt this calm in a long time, not since Wakanda at the very least. Maybe it was justified, then. 

Steve’s hand on his shoulder woke him up, though. Apparently he could still sleep. Steve was still laying down, and Bucky had to roll onto his back to look at him.

“Come on,” Steve murmured. Refreshingly, he didn’t look prim and perfect. His hair was disheveled, his eyes still half-closed, all of him still tucked under a blanket he’d stolen most of in the night. “The holiday party’s today. We should get ready.”

Bucky groaned loudly while Steve tore off the last bit of blanket he had. “I’m not going.”

“We’re all going,” Steve insisted. But he wasn’t any closer to getting out of bed, even after he discarded the blanket on the floor. “They’re not so bad.”

He thought of the meeting. “You really need me to go?”

“It’s part of living here.”

“I’m not even an Avenger.”

Steve turned his head sharply to glare at him. “You’re on the guard duty rotation and your fingerprint can unlock any door in the compound. You’re an Avenger.”

Oh. That was a question he didn’t know he needed answered. He’d just made half-baked assumptions about it, thought he was more of a prisoner than anything else. But that was good to know. He’d have to update his resume.

“Any door?” he joked. He didn’t have any other arguments to get himself out, but it didn’t mean he was getting up right away.

Steve opened his mouth, and then there was a knock. They both lifted their heads, Bucky feeling his pulse quicken, suddenly remembering they lived in glorified dorms and the last he was seen was in some panic-fueled fit rushing back to his room. Maybe since it was a new day it wouldn’t matter anymore. He wasn’t optimistic.

Steve stood up to answer the door. He pushed his hair back so the tousled look of it seemed intentional, and Bucky realized that he was wearing pajamas. He cracked open the door and Bucky could just barely see Sam on the other side. 

“I was wondering how you were doing,” Sam explained. The room wasn’t big but Bucky still heard him like he was far away, like Bucky was eavesdropping.

“I’m okay,” Steve said honestly. Figures, he’d share the truth with Sam but when it came to Bucky everything had to be picture-perfect. Did Steve really think so poorly of him?

“I know yesterday was rough,” Sam continued. “Are you sure you don’t wanna talk?”

Bucky kept one ear tuned to them, but fell back down against the bed. His spine was stiff and his shoulders heavy, still unaccustomed to bearing the weight of the robot arm. He was too good at pretending anymore. When they made him into a spy they really programmed it in deep, because even now under the most mundane of situations he was intruding. Listening to conversations he wasn’t supposed to hear. He felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t thought to check on Steve himself. 

“I’m okay,” Steve repeated, a little brighter. Bucky heard his feet shift, like he was blocking the doorway. “Can we talk later?”

“Whenever you need,” Sam said, but he didn’t retreat. “Still up for checking out those bikes?”

Bucky did glance over at that. Bikes as in motorcycles? It shouldn’t be strange to him, not when Steve learned to ride the same time he did—in the same snowy mountains, forest paths, muddy dirt roads between small towns. But something about it still made him nervous. And besides, where could Steve take a bike?

“Give me twenty minutes?” Steve posed it like a question, but his tone was insistent. “Now’s not… a great time.”

And then Steve did it. He glanced back to the bed. Not an ounce of tact or subtlety in Steve’s golden heart. Sam looked too and Bucky sighed to himself, because there was no way now that Sam hadn’t seen him. 

He thought yesterday had been embarrassing. 

“I’ll meet you there,” Sam said knowingly. Knowing of what, Bucky couldn’t be sure. At least, he really didn’t want to be. 

Steve thanked him quietly and shut the door. Bucky strained to hear the footsteps receding down the hall. He hauled himself up after that. “What bikes?”   
  


Steve shrugged. He wouldn’t look at Bucky again. “Tony’s got a couple motorcycles in storage we wanted to look at.”

“I won’t keep you.” Bucky stood quickly, despite his earlier protests. Feeling like a thorn in Steve’s side rather than a friend. He made for the door but Steve reached as if to catch him.

“Thank you,” Steve murmured, meeting his eyes. His hands were still raised halfway to Bucky, but stopped short. 

Bucky frowned. “For what?”

“For staying.” Steve looked like he was suspended on a thought, something he wouldn’t say or couldn’t figure out how to word. He lowered his arms and tried to stand normal, but Bucky saw through good posture. At least this felt genuine.

He didn’t know how to respond. So he nodded, and passed by Steve after patting him loosely on the arm. It was supposed to feel like a casual gesture—and prove to Steve he could handle contact, in spite of what appearances suggested the day before—but it felt more forced than anything. He left the room and returned to his own, finding the stupid phone so that he could check the campus schedule and see just when this party was supposed to be. 

***

When Steve didn’t come back for him Bucky almost thought he’d get away with not going. The party started at four, which was a respectable time for anyone who had to get back home afterward. And unlike Avengers meetings in conference rooms or other loose gatherings around the living quarters, this party was held in the compound’s largest hangar. At least, that was the entry on the calendar. Bucky hadn’t seen planes in the so-called hangar, but it was big and took up multiple windowed walls, and definitely had the room to host both Avengers and whatever normal people inexplicably worked at this place. It would be pretty, admittedly, to watch the sunset from that room. Bucky had only been once, when he’d first come here. But that was only a few weeks ago; he could find his way back.

He really didn’t wanna go. What use was it? Not like he was much beyond a prisoner, like anybody would be lining up to take their picture with the Winter Soldier. If he made an appearance it was only out of obligation, not because he actually liked parties. But, he kinda did. At least, there’d been a time in his life when he did. More importantly, Steve’s strangely contagious sense of duty rubbed off on him. He felt more and more guilty about sitting quietly in his room when he had somewhere to be. The phone kept reminding him, too—the damn rat—and he almost thought he’d just head down to the gym or the kitchen or the theater now that there was no competition. But nah, he had to go. For nobody but himself; it was a point of pride anymore.

With the arm back and the new haircut he could almost look impressive again. The best he’d ever looked dancing had been in his sergeant’s uniform, the night before he shipped out, the night he’d unknowingly said goodbye to Steve as he knew him. What were the odds Steve had kept something like that for him? But that was tacky, vintage duds trying to be some version of himself he was too old and too damaged to get back. He picked through what clothes he’d collected for himself—he’d been alright at this when he was an assassin, trying to blend with crowds and choosing only the clothes he could steal readily off the racks—but the pressure was somehow much higher now that it was for him. No personas, no fake identities. He wasn’t the Winter Soldier or even White Wolf. He was gonna go to this party as Bucky.

Why was that so hard? It was who he wanted to be.

He wandered down the hall, tracing mental maps of the compound to plan his entrance. He could probably slip in and nobody’d be the wiser, so long as he picked the right door. The concept of actually being at the party wasn’t so daunting anymore, not if he could get in unnoticed. But the route he chose took him down another hall of personal rooms, and he slowed down a little out of curiosity. He wasn’t sure where anyone else lived. And when he hesitated a little longer to look inside open doors he was spotted suddenly by a very flustered Peter.

The kid looked a little relieved to see him—to see an adult, Bucky guessed—and ran to the door. He had a tie haphazardly strung around his neck. “Do you know how to tie this?”

Bucky laughed. “Yeah. Are ties required?”

He hadn’t worn one himself. He’d opted for casual rather than formal, choosing subdued blue and black that didn’t draw any extra attention to him but was slightly more animated than the sweats he’d been wearing for the past week or so. Peter didn’t look all that fancier, but the tie was probably more for maturity than for style.

“I’ve never been to a SHIELD holiday party,” Peter said nervously while Bucky took the tie from him. “I hope there’s not a dress code.”

Bucky strung the tie around his own neck and followed muscle memory. “The last time I went to one, it was still the SSR. We had to wear garrison uniforms.”

“In the old days?” Peter said it like a guess, but it wasn’t really a guess. “Did they make you wear ties?”

“It was part of the uniform.” With the knot finished, Bucky loosened the tie and handed it back to Peter. “Do you know where we’re going for this thing?”

Peter nodded a couple times, and left his door thrown open while he jumped back in search of shoes. It wasn’t like there weren’t shoes tossed around the room, but he seemed to have a specific pair in mind and could only find one. 

“Hey, there’s no hard feelings, right?” Peter said to him suddenly, pausing with a matching shoe in each hand. “You know, from how I beat you in that fight.”

Bucky bit back the urge to tell the kid he’d pulled punches. He may not have been a hundred percent during the civil war, but he wasn’t so far gone as to beat up a kid. “You got a few lucky shots, that’s all. But there’s no hard feelings.”

“Good,” Peter sighed. Ungracefully he tugged on the shoes and shut his door behind him. It seemed appropriate, since his room more than most was full of half-engineered tech and loose wires and at least with the closed door the campus’ fire suppression systems might actually keep it all contained. “You just always look mad at me.”

“I’m not mad,” he said. But he didn’t know how to justify himself either. 

Peter was satisfied by the answer for a second and led them further down the hall, into parts unknown. But then he snapped around to look at Bucky and asked almost as urgently, “Is your arm okay?”

“It’s fine.” He pretended he could feel gears grinding in it, especially around the shoulder where metal met bone. But, honestly, the only thing about it that felt different from the human arm was the weight. “Sorry about yesterday. I’m not good with, uh, procedures.”

“It’s all good.” Peter glanced at the arm—at the hand, since it was the only vibranium piece showing. “It’s cool. Better than the old one.”

He smiled. “You have no idea.”

Peter led the way in silence from there. Going down this hall was apparently the shortcut, because it put them right into the window-filled hallway leading into the hangar. A more conspicuous entrance than he’d hoped, but the party already seemed in full swing and he and Peter really did walk in practically unnoticed.

He waved goodbye to the kid—Peter got caught pretty fast by clusters of nameless people. From what he could tell, everyone who worked at the campus in some capacity was here now, SHIELD agents and scientists and everyday office workers, with more familiar Avengers interspersed amidst them. Catering tables, candles, Christmas trees, it was just how he’d imagined a holiday office party. He put on a smile—the kind that didn’t invite any questions, but also wouldn’t get him kicked out early. He took a champagne flute from one of the tables, even though the best thing it could do for him was the acidic taste. But it was something to hold, to look a little more integrated. He walked across the entire room, from tables to windows, without talking to a single person. It was a little late for sunsets but he was right, the view of black forests and sinking sky was worth it. And the reflection of candles and lights made for nice contrast.

The last SSR party he’d been to was louder than this. And hazier, from cigar smoke and dim lightbulbs. But as a consequence it was warmer, and the unspoken but looming threat of war made the celebration that much more joyful. He sang and danced and drank, and Steve did very little of anything still. He watched the glass now for reflections, hoping to see Steve having a better time.

Instead, he saw Sam. Sam approached him coincidentally, passing along the window and stopping at the sight of Bucky’s reflection. Bucky turned slightly to acknowledge him but only faced him through the window. He braced himself.

“So,” Sam raised his eyebrows, “you and Steve?”

Bucky snorted. “Not what it looks like.”

“What’s it look like?” Sam asked nonchalantly. One of those shitty leading questions.

He wasn’t dignifying that with a response. He looked at them in the window, Sam’s smug face and his irked half-frown. 

“You know, I almost didn’t recognize you,” Sam said more casually. “You look a lot less like the guy that tried to kill us.”

That felt like a compliment, or at least some peace offering. “I’m going for vintage.”

“It’s working. You do look like a museum specimen.”

Bucky grinned in spite of himself. “You think? I do have my own chapter in history books.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Sam warned him playfully. “You have a sentence, max. The JFK assassination usually doesn’t get longer than that.”

“If Steve’s in the books, so am I.” He brandished the champagne flute a little for emphasis. “Who do you think taught Steve how to fight?”

“Pretty sure when I learned history, they didn’t spend a lot of time on Captain America’s random friend.” Sam shrugged. “But you’d be in science books. I hear fossil restoration’s gotten pretty advanced.”

Dammit, he couldn’t help but laugh. 

“So you’re doing better today?” Sam said more seriously. Of all the Avengers, Bucky never would’ve guessed Sam was the best at the long con.

He sighed. “So far. How’s Steve?”

“About as honest as you,” Sam answered, turning away from the window to look at Bucky directly. “Look, it’s none of my business, but you shouldn’t wait to say things. You never know how long you’ve got with people.”

Bucky only turned his head, because if he faced Sam for real he’d have to reckon with those words. What did that even mean? He’d already gotten more time than he ever wanted—than he deserved—and to have even a minute more with Steve after everything he’d done was more than enough. A long time ago he’d made peace with his own death; he’d been content leaving everything as it was, letting Steve go on and be the hero. He’d had enough time to say everything he wanted to Steve.

But part of that was because he’d written it down. He didn’t say everything, he never had. The closest he’d ever come to being honest was on the page, in the letters.  _ I’m avoiding being honest with you _ . Did Sam know? Was he so far removed from Steve that Steve was confiding things to Sam over Bucky? He stared back out the window, past his own reflection and the lights glimmering, out to the faint line between black trees and dark sky. The lights turned into snowflakes and the clouds to smoke. He knew this time it wasn’t real. 

Sam was right, though. Bucky took twenty years with Steve for granted, and managed to scrape out extra time only because Steve had the gall—the goddamn audacity—to follow him to war. He owed Steve his life twice over, and yet here he was. Still taking time for granted. And Steve wasn’t anything close to self-preserving. Even if it seemed like all the wars were over he couldn’t be sure the next one wouldn’t crop up. What he did know was that the moment there was a fight, Steve would be right there in the thick of it. And Bucky was fed up with fighting. 

He thought back to the train. To the brief few seconds he’d had between a mission like any other and plummeting to would-be death. None of it had been less terrifying but he had to be okay with things unsaid, with letters never sent. He had to trust Steve thought of him exactly how he had to. That, regardless of how much he loved Steve, Steve would remember Bucky in whatever way helped him keep up the fight. But if he could’ve had one minute more, maybe he would’ve admitted it.

That wasn’t just speculation. That was a clear memory. 

He went to say something to Sam and the man was gone. Just as well. He shut his mouth and looked at his own reflection again. He sipped the champagne and wished it was more than a palate cleanser. Even if he had a stronger drink he knew it didn’t do as much. 

And then he turned around. This was a holiday party, and he wasn’t about to spend it moping the entire time by a window. He couldn’t let himself keep getting hung up on words that weren’t so deep. His downfall, no matter the time, always had been words.

So he mingled. He said polite hellos to people he didn’t recognize, who clearly seemed to know him and were more than a little surprised. He told himself a couple times it was the hair; nobody’d seen him cleaned up in eighty years. He joined a few amiable conversations—with Sam, again, but then with Tony and Rhodey, Peter for a little, Nat for a lot longer. No more skulking. He tried to make it clear he wasn’t just looking for Steve, that he was actually participating with everyone. And then, much to his own surprise, he actually found himself having a good time. Not the most vivacious party he’d ever been to, but not bad to ease him back into society.

He estimated it was at least two hours since he’d first arrived. He stayed long enough that the crowd was starting to thin, people heading home and the most prominent of those left were the campus’ occupants. In that time he’d managed to entertain himself genuinely, all without following Steve around. Actually, he hadn’t seen Steve all night. It was stupid, but even though he’d just seen Steve that morning and Steve was the one to cut his hair, he kinda wanted to be seen. For Steve to recognize him as the old Bucky. He started looking for Steve intentionally—which shouldn’t be as hard as it was. He felt a little more distant from the crowd again, and it probably showed on his face. 

Then he saw him. Anticlimactically, Steve was just politely talking with people Bucky didn’t know, near the corner of the windows beside a couple Christmas trees. When the strangers waved and walked off Bucky took the opening. Steve didn’t notice him at first but when he did, his whole face lit up. More than surprised, he was awestruck. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Bucky joked. But whatever emotion was on Steve’s face, he felt it too. Steve in a sweater, awkwardly waiting in the corner of a busy room, afraid nobody saw him. It really was like nothing ever changed.

Steve didn’t speak at first. He only nodded, gaping, brows knitting into that sweet, sentimental face that always melted Bucky’s heart. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky shrugged, “I thought it was a waste if nobody saw me all put back together.”

“We can leave now, if you want,” Steve offered. It was so quick, Bucky felt guilty. He’d really conditioned Steve into isolating the both of them.

“We don’t have to,” he said. He’d long since abandoned his drink but wished he hadn’t, just so he could casually punctuate the thought. “I’m having a good time.”

Steve looked like he might fall apart grinning. “Really?”

Bucky nodded. “Mmhm. But there’s an awful lack of mistletoe, for a holiday party.”

If he understood the double meaning, Steve didn’t show it. He just laughed. “Yeah, we don’t have mistletoe. It’s a bad association for Thor.”

“For a guy who’s not even here?” Bucky glanced around, more for the show of it. “There could at least be a little more dancing.”

“There’s room for it,” Steve agreed, but much like the old days he looked uncomfortable by the suggestion. 

Okay, it was time. Sam was right, he didn’t know when he’d have the nerve again and he wasn’t sure if or when there’d be another opportunity. What would he do if he had just one more minute on the train? So he took a deep breath—Steve noticed that—and said, “We could dance.”

There was music, slow and gentle over the conversations and clinking glasses. It wasn’t loud and energetic, but that was better.

“You know I don’t know how,” Steve insisted. And he smiled like he thought this was a joke.

“I can teach you,” he said. 

Steve laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.” He held out the human hand. His heart pounded as he waited expectantly, holding Steve’s gaze, smiling. God, maybe he should’ve held out the vibranium hand. It wouldn’t be shaking. “You’re overdue for a dance.”

Steve’s smile faded, first to disbelief and then to some unwillingness to believe. He was a kid again, the skinny punk who never saw himself in any spotlight, who waited on walls. And then, as expected, his sentimental face came back. He took Bucky’s hand hesitantly. 

And he looked like he wanted to say something. Their little corner of the hangar was unoccupied, the music echoed off the windows, and the lights on the trees glowed like fireflies. Steve was a thousand miles away when Bucky adjusted their hands and their stances—like hell Steve didn’t know how to dance—but it didn’t matter. Bucky was right there. They started a more practical distance apart, so it looked more like teaching than actually dancing; if anyone was watching they wouldn’t be suspicious. Bucky with his vibranium hand on Steve’s waist, the human one holding Steve’s. Steve laughed a little, still a part of him expecting the joke to end. 

When it didn’t, Steve got a little closer. The steps got slower. Bucky was only half listening to the music, and torn between watching some point on Steve’s chest and actually looking him in the eye. Steve made that choice for him. Now they barely moved at all, and Steve’s hand shifted from his shoulder down his arm. Their joined hands came a little closer. Wherever Steve had been he was here now, and Bucky was falling into those blue eyes. And Steve slipped both hands around Bucky’s neck, and—

“Thanks for this,” Steve said, pulling Bucky into the hug.

He was sure now Steve could feel the drumbeat of his pulse. But he hugged back with both arms and was glad Steve at least seemed happy. “I owed you.”


	6. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

“So,” Nat said nonchalantly, “you and Bucky?”

Steve let gritty footfalls be his answer. He was keeping pace with Nat out of courtesy; if he didn’t want to talk he could easily speed up and run literal circles around her. He’d bothered getting out of bed at all to come run and talk with her, not be pelted with questions. But it wasn’t unprecedented; she always did something like this, no matter what the stakes. He knew that before he agreed to come. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tried to say calmly. 

He wondered why she invited him running. Usually Nat was more private about her own practice, and if they were going to meet and talk it would be over lunch or coffee. Spies always moving unseen pieces, he figured. She probably brought him here so he’d feel a little more in control.

“You’re not that dumb,” she teased. “The party? And don’t think I don’t know what you two were doing first.”

His heart sped up. But this was a trap; if he tried to explain it, she’d reveal she was bluffing all along. Or, if he said he didn’t know what she was talking about, she’d give him a secondhand account from Sam. No answer was the right one. 

But she pressed on. “Why was he in your room for a full twenty-four hours?” 

“It wasn’t twenty-four hours.” And he winced, because Nat’s smug grin told him this was still part of the trap.

He looked down at her. She raised her eyebrows. She was keeping pace with him, even though he was running a little faster than he meant to. 

“He was having a hard time,” Steve mumbled, slowing down, watching the lines of the track. It might be okay to say it out loud. Of all the people he knew anymore, Nat could usually keep secrets. And she’d find out one way or another. “So was I. We were looking out for each other, that’s all.”

“You know I don’t understand your forties euphemisms,” Nat chastised playfully. “What about last night?”

Steve tried to shrug mid-stride. “Nothing. I went to bed after the party and haven’t seen him since.”

Nat rolled her eyes, and stopped running. “The  _ dance _ , Steve. What’s up with the dance?”

“He offered,” Steve said without thinking. He didn’t want to talk about it, much less on the indoor track in case anyone overheard. But eavesdropping wasn’t his main concern; he was still imagining the dance like a dream, the thought alone spreading warmth through his chest. It was personal. Even if he wanted to share, how could he explain whatever it was that made him forget the rest of the party? He had bad tunnel vision when it came to Bucky, he knew that, but he didn’t have to be quite so spellbound. He stopped running too, and turned around to face Nat. “He used to take me with him when he went dancing.”

“So, he recreated your old dates?” Nat said. She crossed her arms, apparently having just won some debate he didn’t know he was arguing. 

“No,” Steve said defensively. “They were his dates. I got dragged along just to watch.”

And that tempered the warmth. Bucky was still in his own mind, thinking about his best memories even though those rarely involved Steve. He was happy that Bucky was happy, though. Better to have him healthy, recuperating, than as scared as he’d been. Still, it had seemed an awful lot like Bucky meant something else by the dance. But he was reading into things.

“Still sounds like a date to me,” Nat insisted. “But that’s not important anymore. What are you gonna do next?”

“Next?” He crossed his arms. It held the shock close to his chest. There wasn’t anything to follow, so there couldn’t be a next. Nat was talking about a sequence, a pattern. He was lucky to have pieces. “There’s no next.”

Nat huffed. “Steven. You chased this man across the world and you’re letting it end with one dance?”

“Letting  _ what _ end?” Irritated as he was, he still took some comfort in the sibling-like bickering. If he didn’t want to be scrutinized for mysterious reasons he wouldn’t spend any extra time with her. And she didn’t make any sense—tracking down Bucky and dancing with him were totally unrelated—but he did believe she’d connect the two somehow. It was fun to see what strange web she spun.

“You’re hopeless,” she sighed, tossing her head back dramatically. And then she marched up to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and stared daggers. “You haven’t stopped talking about him since he got here. You rearranged a whole conference room to take him on a dinner date. He slept in your room—in your bed, Steve—and then he danced with you.”

He nodded slowly. Her choice of words didn’t always feel right, but he couldn’t deny it was a sincere list of events in the past week or so since Bucky came home. 

“You did all this work to bring him here,” she continued, almost slowly, bordering on patronizing. Her face was incredulous, like she was explaining to him that the sky was blue or fire was hot. “And you’re not planning anything else?”

Now he was getting worried. He had set quite the expectation for the first few weeks, and he had no more big surprises. “Should I be?” 

She groaned and released him, but still stood right in front of him. “Okay, let’s start smaller. Did you think any of those things were a date?”

Reluctantly, he thought about the first dinner in the conference room. He meant it two ways, as something to recapture how the old days had been and maybe, yes, like a date. But what good was it to plan dates without telling? He tried to remember the conference room dinner more fondly but it left his stomach in all kinds of knots. He’d ruined it by bringing up Peggy—God rest her soul, but she always did want more for him than the humble circumstances he would resign himself to. And he’d ruined it again by admitting, if only for a moment, that he’d felt some type of way about Peggy and Bucky alike. 

Bucky always used to play cards tactfully, rigidly, and with an outward charm. He kept the cards close and played moves deliberately, betting his luck against bad odds and coming out on top every time. He was smart about playing, never backing himself into corners he couldn’t overcome. But when they’d played that night in the conference room, one arm aside he’d been a lot less careful. Steve almost saw his hand more than once, and the moves he played weren’t always planned or even tactfully executed. Still with the outward charm, still with some sense of discipline, but clearly broken. Bucky played that game not to win, but simply to play. And it was pretty clear Bucky didn’t play card games with anyone else on the campus.

“Yes,” Steve admitted quietly. “I did think of some of those things as a date.”

Nat beamed suddenly. She barely kept her voice level when she asked, “So what do you want to do next?”

***

Bucky inhaled deeply, catching the cold forest air, filling his lungs with it. He wished it had snowed a little more. He figured running out on the footpaths before his guard shift was all well and good, but maybe he should train a little focus while he was there. He had a timer set on the phone and reminded himself of it every time he thought he’d been sitting and breathing too long. It was harder today. His throat felt tight for no reason, his thoughts raced. They were insubstantial, so even if he wanted to concentrate on one thing he couldn’t.

But breathe in, breathe out. He could do that much. Tasting the wind, trying to predict when it would snow again, picking up on the crack of branches and the muffled hum of the compound somewhere off behind him. He was a sniper and damn good at it, sitting quietly and observing was second nature. But layering in the calm on top of it was new. Focus, sure, focus and attention were typical. But he was here to slow down his mile-a-minute mind. He wanted to be calmer.

He figured he had longer on the timer than anything he could estimate. He was restless, and that was bad form. Snap back into focus, hold onto it with both hands. If he really tried, he could feel the rifle in his hands and his entire field of view narrowed to the scope, to the shaking circle hyper-focused on the field. Steady only when he slowed his breath and then stopped it entirely. 

Maybe his thoughts were rapid but there were a few recurrent themes. He wanted to be better friends with people here—assimilate a little more into his home—and figure out what he liked to do anymore. It was Christmas Eve and he didn’t really know what to do with that information. More parties and plans? He didn’t have the guts to ask Steve to dance a second time, but the first one wouldn’t leave him alone. Of everything he had to worry about, everything flashing through his head so fast he couldn’t follow, that one he had to push away.

It was a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t. He thought Steve seemed happy at the time but it apparently wasn’t much of anything. Or maybe it was, he had no goddamn clue. It almost made him sheepish to think about, that he’d been so bold as to dance with Steve at a public event and think it was a big romantic gesture. He was embarrassed that he’d thought it would be so easy. And that he thought, for a second, Steve might think about kissing him. What delusions was he entertaining? 

The phone timer went off. So that was it, done with breathing and unsuccessfully focusing. He silenced the phone quickly and stood back up. He ran from the dry woods to the open, snowy fields, using the resistance against his feet and the ice to make the run more tiring. He didn’t mind the cold out here, not while running and planning out his route for guard duty. 

Guard duty was a relative chore, he’d learned. The campus had security enough to ward off most threats, as simple as the fences and as complex as firewalls. Sometimes the physical presence of an Avenger roaming around was a good deterrent—and it gave them excuses to run drills, test equipment, learn the grounds. There weren’t really rules; the whole premise was more of a formality or display. Just like any military base, really. And that made him a little angry, to still be treated like a grunt soldier when, even setting aside the Winter Soldier, he was overqualified. Not to mention retired. He was fine with chores, though. That didn’t bother him. And if one of the chores happened to be patrolling around grounds—or watching security cameras, or really just doing nothing but waiting on call in case something happened—he could do that kind of work.

He thought about taking another shift for the evening. He didn’t know if or when there were holiday plans, but he knew he didn’t want to participate again. Not in another party, at least. But he’d be okay with a movie like Peter was always telling him about, card games with Sam and Nat, something quieter like that. Or maybe he’d turn in early instead. Why not try to sleep a little longer? And it wasn’t like tomorrow would be any better; he really had no idea what to do with the full-blown holiday. 

The pattern he’d planned for his guard duty took him all the way to the fences, interspersing marches right alongside the border with sprints back through the woods to a different section. It was the opposite of efficient, which hopefully meant it would be exhausting and require just a little more focus than jogging mindless circles. It was a little like rattling the bars of a cage, but he liked being aware of the exact space. It was enough, he guessed, not to be picky with situations he couldn’t change and he should be grateful to have. The snow added to it, gave him a piece of the mountainous war frontier he knew subconsciously, put him to work staying warm and breaking through snowdrifts rather than struggling against nothing. Yeah, he tried to convince himself, this was all gonna be so much fun.

But whatever he hoped from the rotation, it wasn’t enough to stave off the one thought that kept coming back to him. Of all the romantic gestures he could’ve tried—not saying the dance had  _ actually _ been intended as a romantic gesture—why did he pick something Steve despised? Well, that wasn’t fair. Bucky dragged Steve along on his own dates, to watch from the walls because nobody wanted to dance with some kid they might step on. So it was a bad plan, even though Bucky thought it would come off like making up for lost time. Hey, Steve, every time I invited you along I really just wanted to be there with you. I thought it was about time I danced with the only partner I ever really wanted. But instead he’d probably seemed insensitive, the same kind of selfish he’d always been. 

And why did he feel the need to make romantic gestures anyway? Not that the dance  _ had been romantic _ , of course. Just because Sam told him to be honest didn’t mean spilling his guts and spoiling an already tenuous friendship. He vowed to himself long, long ago he wouldn’t let something so stupid as secrets get in his way, not when it came to Steve. And if he wanted to be honest now, it was already decades too late. 

It hadn’t been a disaster. Not really. Actually, it went better than he could’ve anticipated, had he been anticipating. Steve hugging him, thanking him, that was familiar. That was about how things had been between them before his deployment. But there was still a big gap between what he wanted and what he got.

He was being selfish by wanting it, though. By thinking, even after all the self-sacrificing moments he’d witnessed from Steve, that he had any right to ask anything else of him. And it wasn’t a small ask, either. He was selfish because he still tried to be romantic in his old ways, the ways Steve clearly never thought were directed at him. And here he was, distracting himself from old wars and new duties.

He tried to take his route seriously from there. His intuition about the snow and the route was right; it took him a lot longer to push through open, unplowed fields no matter how fast he tried to go. And when he reached the fence it was like the edge of the world, and cut him off every time. Really, he was starting to think he needed a full time job. Not like he had a choice about leaving, or any applicable skills even if he  _ could _ leave. But something to take up his time and keep him from getting lazy. Hell, he’d been a farmer for the past few years, and that was just the right balance of work and rest. He liked the physicality of it, and the patience, and the animals. Too bad all that was on the campus was technology and automation and very little need for him.

When he got back to the main building at the end of his shift, Nat was loitering by the door. There were a lot of ways in and out but he always snuck out the back, near the least amount of landing pads and definitely not the front door where all the SHIELD agents worked. Damn his own predictability; that was bad form. He hadn’t been paying much attention to things like that anymore.

“Hey, Barnes!” she yelled at him before he was anywhere near the door. “I need to talk to you.”

He liked her well enough, but hadn’t they already talked enough? He didn’t have interesting stories about Russia the way she did, and she knew enough of the story that he didn’t have anything left to tell. He inhaled deeply and straightened his back, putting on all the right airs to have a conversation with another of Steve’s best friends.

“We noticed you didn’t put your name in for the Secret Santa,” she said, somehow keeping a straight face, saying it like it was a rule he’d broken. He didn’t believe it at first, that this was so important she had to catch him on the way back from his one scheduled activity. “Don’t worry, I added you.”

There were a lot of reasons that fact made him miserable. But the first one that came to mind was, “How am I supposed to buy a gift by tomorrow?”

He raised his eyebrows at her, daring her to tell him it would be fine to sneak off the grounds for a short excursion into town. He wasn’t even sure where the nearest “town” was. And if she thought using a vending machine in the office part of the campus—or better yet, stealing from the storage—was a good alternative, she would’ve been better off leaving him out of the whole arrangement.

But she shook her head. She had a half-smirk and some kind of superiority. “We don’t buy the gifts, or else Tony’s would put everyone to shame. You have to make them.”

“Great,” he said flatly, because that was  _ so _ much better than buying something. “Who did I get?”

“Wanda,” she said quickly, “but that doesn’t matter. I got Steve and I need your help.”

Well, of all the people on the campus, at least Wanda was one of the few he knew. Between her name and Steve’s he had a couple ideas already, but one mention of Steve and he was distracted again. It would’ve been too suspicious if he’d gotten Steve himself, though. This was better.

“He likes motorcycles and art supplies,” Bucky suggested, without remembering it was a handmade gift. And Nat was talented but he wasn’t sure she could make a whole motorcycle from scratch. 

“I know.” She grabbed him by the arm and directed him inside, towards the computer labs and tech rooms he barely visited unless he was on his way to the theater. “He also likes dogs but hates world war memorabilia. I made that mistake last year. I already know what to get him, I just need help with the execution.”

He frowned. “What did you get him that needs executing?”

She was halfway through the open door of a supply closet but stopped to glare at him. “Easy, soldier. I need you to help execute my  _ plan _ .”

He rolled his eyes as soon as she turned back to the closet. He tried to see what she was assembling—colorful paper, a pair of scissors, outdoor string lights?—but it looked like nonsense to him. He wasn’t sure what plan this was, unless they were throwing Steve a surprise, extremely belated birthday party. 

She left that closet and rearranged the equipment in her arms. He was right about scissors and paper and outdoor lights, but had somehow missed the tinsel and mistletoe. Apparently they had it after all. His stomach dropped a little, anxious about how corny of a holiday party this was shaping up to be and hoping he wasn’t expected to participate in that. But he feared he would be forced in anyway. If she dared dress him up in an ugly sweater he might as well make a whole fool out of himself and jump out of a big box too. He wasn’t cleaned up just for shitty stunts like this.

They walked single-file, her with purpose and him unenthusiastically behind her, from supply room to supply room, and she made him carry everything when it got to be too much. He tried to ignore all of what she was collecting; there was no way the notorious Black Widow was planning a party where Christmas threw up on everything, but whatever else she was trying to make didn’t look promising. He’d just grit his teeth and bear it, whatever she needed help with. He was probably only there to make sure she got Steve’s favorite colors—she had, but only because she’d grabbed an entire rainbow of color paper—and to give him something to do. They were friends, he thought. She was probably including him to be nice because that’s what friends did. 

But he started to get suspicious when she led him back through offices and conference rooms. This was too close to the working part of the campus for comfort, even though it seemed like only a few people were there during the holiday. Technically, though, they had places to go after this; the building was the only place he had for the rest of his foreseeable future, so it was only fair he was allowed to stretch his legs this far. He kept telling himself that to distract from where they were really headed, the tiny conference room with table still pushed to the side, pillows long gone but he recognized it anyway. How could he forget?

It was a warm thought despite his own stupidity that night, and despite the stupid craft supplies in his arms. He’d done his utmost to spoil the evening—even though Steve thought it was his fault, because that was just the goddamn idiot he was—but it couldn’t be ruined. Cards and quiet music, walls pushing in, nothing to hide behind and only that much room to surveille. All he had to focus on was a game and Steve, and that was the closest he’d felt to the old times since he’d gotten here. That and… Well, the dance didn’t count. It was an old-fashioned thing but it wasn’t any semblance of the old times.

Nat pulled the table from the wall and had Bucky lay out everything there. It looked like the worst kind of craft project, something for really young kids who would glue anything sparkly to whatever they could reach. He felt patronized. Did hand-making something really have to stoop so low? He didn’t even try to convince himself it might be fun. 

“Is there a plan?” he asked sharply. He didn’t feel bad about the harsh tone. 

“Don’t you trust me?” she replied, matching his bitterness with optimism. “It’ll go faster with help, and since it’s for Steve I thought you would be willing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snorted. He didn’t like all these assumptions. 

“I don’t need to answer that.” She pushed a box of lights towards him and that was that. All he was doing was setting up another goddamn party.

He tried not to pay attention to whatever she was doing—shredding confetti, making cards, god knows what else—and stuck to the tasks she delegated to him. With every thumbtack he pressed a bit too tightly into the wall, pulling up the strings of lights, he pretended with everything he had that he was just doing chores. No way was he setting up some stupid surprise party for Steve fucking Rogers. Even at his most romantic this wasn’t his scene, the holidays and decorations and going so overboard with it he might as well have been designing window displays. He and Steve never used to do much for Christmas, blasphemous as it had been at the time. But neither of them had much to give and the things they wanted weren’t tangible. He tried his hardest those first few years when Steve was on his own, lighting candles everywhere in the tiny apartment and scraping together enough for a tree, baubles, a little bit of ribbon to wrap up presents. He got Steve small things too, and it always felt like Steve couldn’t admit appreciating them. But he did, he untied ribbons gently and held onto the carnival ride tokens and baseballs and comic books like they were diamonds. 

If he were getting Steve anything this year, he would get him a baseball. And hopefully that would be just the right kind of romantic gesture.

But he wasn’t. He couldn’t get Steve anything that wasn’t already on the campus, and unfortunately all he had was himself. 

“This Secret Santa,” Bucky spoke up eventually, eyeing Nat over his shoulder so he didn’t seem too engaged, “it’s real, right?”

“Would I lie to you?” She stopped tying bows out of ribbon and met his gaze. “You can go if you want, but I need you back here tonight. By five, okay?”

It was that easy all along. He left half the string of lights dangling off the wall and moved for the door, but he was suspicious. “By five?”

She nodded. “To finish my plan.”

He sighed, rubbed his face with a hand. “Fine. See you then.”

She had probably scheduled it already—him and the tiny conference room. Sure, if it was for Steve he wanted to help, but it wasn’t his gift or his plan. Really, he didn’t have a good reason to feel invested.

“Don’t forget a present for Wanda!” Nat called after him when he shut the door. 

At least that was something to do. 

Now that he knew where all the craft supplies were—and that the Avengers kept closets full of colorful paper and funny zig-zagged scissors, a fact he never thought he would need to know—he could consider some dumb card. Was that too childish? Wanda was young but not a kid, not someone who would need a note written in crayon on construction paper. He could do what he’d done in the old days, wrap something small with brown paper and red ribbon. That was a nicer plan, a little better execution, but he wasn’t sure what thing to wrap. A book? Something stolen off Steve’s shelves or his own, that wouldn’t be missed too much but was still a good read. A decent enough plan. 

Or, he could take the path a little more personal. One thing he and Wanda had in common was the new citizenship, and just about their whole friendship was built on that fact. It would only be right that, if he really wanted to get her a gift that meant something, it would be related to that. So he went back to his wing and peeked inside Steve’s open door—Steve was long gone, probably off putting together gifts of his own. So Bucky invited himself in and went right for the desk. He’d seen it before and he knew it would still be there, a mug in the corner printed with the standard “I Love New York” he’d seen over and over throughout his modern Winter Soldier career. And he knew this mug didn’t mean anything to Steve; it was the nicer of two, with the dirtier one full of pencils and pens, and Steve had told him in one of their more mundane talks that the pencil-filled one was a housewarming gift from Tony when he moved onto the campus. The cleaner one, that he didn’t even dignify with use, was a thank-you from some public figure for some less significant feat of heroism, and Steve only just found it after moving his things into the new room.

Good thing it was still there. It wouldn’t be missed, but he jotted down a quick note to Steve anyway, explaining where the mug was going. And he took it back to his own room real quick, writing out a short note to Wanda on better paper. The standard niceties, happy holidays, but then he braved a more heartfelt welcome to the neighborhood and sympathy for the difficult adjustment. He folded the note and left it inside the mug, then wandered to one of the holiday-filled supply closets for ribbon and less gaudy paper. He only succeeded in finding ribbon.

It was good enough. He took the gift and sought out Wanda’s room, somewhere on the other side of the kitchen. Like a separate bunker, really, a dormitory across the campus. It was a lot bigger now, in the daylight when he was trying to find someone specific. Okay, he’d wandered there by happenstance last night, he could do it again on purpose. What he knew about the rooms was that they were all in the same building—not everything was, the offices and labs being a good walk outside, across sky bridges, underground—but that his wing was designed purposefully separated from these ones. Not for him specifically, but an intention. So he just had to find a place more central to the communal living spaces and far, far away from his home.

He found it from the open door at the end of the hall, which was obviously Peter’s room. He recognized the haphazard tech laying on every available surface, but also the posters, and relative lack of actual possessions, and in the corner of the window facing outside a small flag, tri-colored rows, and Bucky couldn’t place the country. He hadn’t seen that last night but he figured it was some reference he wasn’t getting yet. Past Peter’s room were a few closed doors, and he tried to guess by the light beneath them whose rooms they were. 

Before he had to start knocking one of the doors opened. He was lucky after all, when Wanda walked out. She smiled when she saw him and he waved back.

“Apparently I was supposed to get you a gift,” he said to break the ice. He was still suspicious this was an elaborate piece to Nat’s plan, but he held out the mug. It wasn’t fancy but with the ribbon tied around it, it almost looked nice.

“The Secret Santa?” she guessed. “I didn’t see you put your name in.”

They must’ve done it at the party last night, before he’d gotten there. “I got roped in anyway. Happy holidays.”

She took the mug and laughed. “I wonder what it could be.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said. “But I thought you deserved a welcome.”

“Thank you,” she said more genuinely. She held it in both hands, pulling aside the ribbon just enough to see the entire logo. “Natasha was looking for you, by the way. Did she find you?”

Wanda was one of the friends he made on his own merit; he didn’t want to groan in front of her about friends he’d made because of Steve. “Yeah, she did. She needs my help for whatever she’s doing for Steve.”

“She hasn’t told you?” Wanda raised her eyebrows and laughed in surprise. 

“What does that mean?” He threw his arms halfway up exasperatedly. There better not be a humiliating twist to whatever plan this was turning into. “She told me I have to be back this evening.”

Wanda’s eyes gleamed. “If she didn’t tell you, it must be a surprise for you too.”

Exactly what he didn’t wanna hear. It must’ve showed in his face, because Wanda laughed again.

“Enjoy your evening,” she said teasingly, passing him with mug in hand. He didn’t know what to say back, but he noticed she was undoing the ribbon and noticed the note. So she’d hear from him one way or another.

He wondered who drew his name in the Secret Santa. He wasn’t excited to find out; maybe whoever it was would get him nothing, and avoid him instead. That would be a better gift than any object he could think of. 

Damn, he was in a bad mood today. He didn’t mean to be, but now that he realized it he also noticed his heightened nerves. Not just tense but on edge, recoiling from something. Like he’d been startled and was still braced for it to happen again. Was it because of the dance? Of all the reasons, what an astoundingly dumb one. It was just a dance. It was supposed to be fun and sentimental, and it was supposed to show Steve he was doing better. Nothing about it should make his heart pound, except it did. And the more he tried to convince himself otherwise the worse it got. He’d been restless since his morning guard shift but now it was adrenaline too.

And he knew why. He was part of some party Nat was throwing, some plan so important everyone apparently knew it but him. It made him nervous to be used—even though it wasn’t a fight and wasn’t even public. It would have to be something he could handle. He trusted Nat not to put him in situations he wasn’t prepared for, no matter how much she pushed boundaries. And she did and said what was necessary, as a spy and a friend, and he’d seen firsthand the way she forced Steve to face things whether or not he wanted to. If this was all some elaborate plan for Bucky—if she was actually giving  _ him _ a gift—he would have to spend the next few days alone to recover. He didn’t want to be the subject of any attention. It wasn’t fun if it was for him. 

He checked the phone for the time, and it was a lot closer to five than he’d hoped. He wasn’t ready. He was still in lazy guard clothes, he hadn’t thought of a gift for Steve outside of assignments, he didn’t know how to spend the holidays anymore. And, he couldn’t deny his own fear. 

There were a lot of times he’d felt fear like this. It wasn’t the ice-cold, looming dread. It wasn’t anything close to how he’d felt a few days ago, not associated with the same blind panic. But he was used to it from a few different poignant moments, from the nights before boot camp or shipping out entirely. From a lot of nights in the war, and before it. From his most recent dream.

Before any party, he had to change. It was putting him dangerously close to five, but appearance was one of the few things he could control anymore and it was for Steve. It was part of the gift. And then, trying not to feel ridiculous, he hiked back to the world’s tiniest conference room. Now this felt like a date, suspiciously similar to the last time. His best shoes, his cleared schedule, his whole evening set on one event. He wished he had a watch—much more appropriate than the phone for loitering around waiting for Steve.

Nat was standing outside the room, but the second she saw him he was pushed inside. He abided, and barely had time to register lit candles and Steve’s record player before she was giving him instructions. “Get comfortable. I’m going to get Steve now.”

“Wait–” he tried to say, but she was back out the door. All he wanted to know was how long he should expect to wait. It would be just as much surprise to him as it would be to Steve.

So what exactly was happening? The conference room had some semblance of the quiet, tucked away world it had the first time. Still dim, lit mainly by the lights he’d strung around the room and the candles on the one table. There were two chairs on either side of the table, though, like a proper dinner date, but there wasn’t any food. Maybe that was an extra feature. But nearer the window was a makeshift Christmas tree, crafted out of the colorful construction paper. It wasn’t pretty but it was impressive, and—he supposed—cute. Bad mood aside, the room was charming, a homey feel to it he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. The rest of the campus was too manufactured, corporate decorating rather than personal, and this was different.

Holidays hadn’t existed for him for a while. He was trying to remember what he was supposed to feel, or how he’d gone through Christmas Eve way back in the day. His sisters, his exasperated parents, sitting through the coldest goddamn church service of the year all to run back home and tear open presents. They never had much but it always seemed like a whole lot, especially when he’d try to see what Steve got and Steve would push him away, pout, play angry and aloof all because he didn’t get anything. When they were older, living independently and didn’t have to go to church anymore, he’d spend the night at Steve’s apartment. He’d make it special. He’d tie paper and red ribbon around little things because even if he didn’t have much he wanted to give it to Steve. It was anticlimactic and they didn’t do much else beyond that, maybe drink, maybe just read by the radio, draw and dream, play cards. All the same things he did with Steve every free moment he had for the rest of his former life. Holidays weren’t any more special than that. 

God, he missed the holidays.

If Nat told him to get comfortable, it probably meant she would have to do some convincing to get Steve to go anywhere. Not a hard instruction to follow, so he took a seat. He could see it almost perfectly, Steve reluctant to go with her somewhere out of the blue and her dragging him by the arm—he wouldn’t dare plant his feet—but he’d complain and make excuses right up until she opened the door. Given his reaction to the party and the dance, Bucky figured this would send Steve right over the edge. 

The door opened. Instinctively, he straightened his back, watching the light from the hallway and Steve blinking at the dim. Nat stood behind him, clearly trying to push him in, beaming and repeating encouraging words. When Steve’s eyes adjusted they landed on Bucky, and he walked in almost robotically.

“Happy holidays,” she said in a low, teasing voice. And Steve’s head turned vaguely to her, but his eyes stayed on Bucky. So Nat left, smirking, shutting them both in the room.

“We can’t keep meeting like this,” Bucky said to break the ice. It felt forced. 

“She got you involved too?” Steve asked skeptically, still right in front of the door. 

Bucky held up his hands. “Involved in what?”

“In her plan,” Steve sighed. And then his face turned red. He leaned back against the door. “Did she tell you anything?”

Bucky frowned, not meaning it. “I was told to wait here. I think you know more than me.”

The best crack in Steve’s perfect facade was when he got flustered like this. The face of a kid who’d bitten off more than he could chew, who didn’t ever expect to hit a home run and suddenly had. But it was still frustrating that Steve knew something and, just like always, Bucky didn’t know anything.

“I’ll tell you what I think the plan is,” Steve mumbled, stepping to the side of the door and then reluctantly reaching for the other chair, “and then you can leave. I’ll understand.”

That made him worry. “What if I want to stay?”

Steve shook his head. He sat and looked less flustered. Still blushing but his eyes were down, his shoulders slumped. What bad news was this? “I don’t think you’ll want to.”

“Guess we’ll find out.” Bucky said it more nonchalantly than he felt. 

Steve took a deep breath. Bucky tried to see him as the kid again but this was just Captain America, tactful and opaque. Nothing good came from this solemn face. “I think this is supposed to be a date.”

Bucky sat rigidly. He looked down at the table too, worried for all new reasons. “A romantic date?”

Steve nodded. “It’s okay if you want to leave now.”

“I don’t wanna leave,” Bucky replied, quickly but flatly. In keeping with the best advice he’d ever received, he swallowed his pride and asked, “Why would your gift be a date with me?”

Steve hung his head. “Remember that book they mailed to all of us during the war?”

“ _ A Tree Grows in Brooklyn _ , I remember.” He had been thinking about books lately, but Bucky hadn’t thought about that one for a long time. He only remembered it so immediately because—

“Remember how you used to call me Francie, like the main character?” Steve continued, laughing softly but sadly, still looking straight down. “I know it was a joke, but I did like it. Sometimes I thought it wasn’t really a joke.”

Yeah, he remembered. Francie the indomitable, idolizing a dead father and trying not to resent a single mother, putting everyone else before herself and working as hard as necessary at whatever she had to, staying on her feet despite all odds. She’d been a dead ringer for Steve; he thought it every time he pored over those pages and reread the same beat-up book again and again. He nodded.

“I used to think you were Lee,” Steve said. Lee the first love in the book, the wrong one. Never meant to be. “I realized later you were Ben.”

Maybe he and Steve remembered the book differently. He remembered Ben as a friend, an ally, essential but only in a supporting role. He narrowed his eyes and dared to face Steve directly. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Steve said, catching there and inhaling deeply again, “I wanted to go on a date with you.”

Bucky stared at him. He was waiting for the second part, for the revelation like the last time he’d been here. It was confusion, that was all, Steve tangling old threads. There was an explanation that deadened it, he knew there was. And he waited, because he wasn’t about to make the mistake of spilling his one biggest secret just for Steve to reveal he meant it any other way.

“I don’t think I remember the book as well as you,” Bucky admitted, once it was clear Steve wasn’t saying anything else. It was supposed to be a joke, but Steve was crestfallen. 

“That’s why I said you could leave,” Steve said quietly. Now he looked more like the kid Steve Rogers again, in all the wrong ways. 

“I don’t want to.” 

Steve looked up at him with just his eyes, disbelieving. “I thought you’d be mad.”

“Why?” But he’d thought the same thing. If Steve was mad about it he’d never forgive himself; at least they still had that in common. “I’m not mad.”

Steve exhaled quietly, some version of relief but not of peace. “It was something Nat twisted out of me. I didn’t think she’d do something like this.”

“Well,” Bucky shrugged, “I’m kinda glad she did.”

Now it was Steve’s turn to be paralyzed. And he was paralyzed blushing; of all the people Bucky had ever met, Steve was the worst at flirting by far. 

“Apparently me taking you dancing wasn’t enough,” he concluded teasingly, half a grin spreading on his face. “I’ve wanted to go on a real date since the thirties.”


End file.
